Assuredly she had acquired no Japanese traits either in manner or appearance. At first she seemed to be in a genuinely British bad temper, but Brett excelled in the art of smoothing the ruffled plumes of femininity.
“What is it?” she demanded, surveying him suspiciously.
“I wish to see Mr. Jiro,” he said, “but permit me to apologise for making such an untimely call. As he is not at home, I must not trouble you beyond inquiring a likely hour to see him to-morrow.”
He smiled so pleasantly that the lady became more complaisant.
“He may not be very long—” she commenced, but the youthful Jiro’s voice was again heard in fretful complaint.
“My baby is not well to-night,” she explained.
“Poor little darling!” said Brett.
He was tempted to add: “What is its name?” but refrained.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Mrs. Jiro. “As I was saying, my husband may not be very long—”
She was fated not to complete that doubly accurate sentence, for at that moment a key rattled in the outer door.