“No, sir, but Mrs. Jiro is.”
An infantine wail from one of the apartments showed that there was also a young Jiro.
The maid neither advanced nor retreated. She simply stood stock still, petrified by the sight of a well-dressed visitor.
Brett suggested that she should inform her mistress of his presence.
“Please, sir,” whispered the girl, “are you from Ipswich?”
“No; from Victoria Street.”
“I only asked, sir, because master is particular about people from Ipswich. They upset missus so.”
She vanished into the interior, and came back to usher him into the drawing-room. The flat was expensively furnished, but very untidy. He at once perceived, however, that the “former” Mr. Okasaki was not romancing when he boasted of his artistic tastes. The Japanese articles in the room were gems of faience and lacquer work.
The entrance of Mrs. Jiro drew the barrister’s eyes from surrounding objects. He was momentarily stunned. The woman was almost a giantess, and amazingly stout. In a tiny flat, waited on by a diminutive servant, and married to a Japanese, she was grotesque.
Originally a very tall and fairly good-looking girl, she had evidently blossomed out like one of the gorgeous chrysanthemums of her husband’s favoured land.