He began by alluding to the excellence of the rooms we had. They were excellent, the best in the inn, being a part of an extra cupola story and giving a splendid view across the lake. Then he restated the known fact that the baths were served by natural hot springs. “The water comes pouring in through bamboo pipes,” he said.
“Well,” I spoke for the first time, “and then what happened?”
The honourable seiyo-jin drank another cup of tea.
“I got into the wrong bath,” he said.
It was news that there could be any such thing as a wrong bath in a Japanese inn.
“You see,” he continued, “the baths for the guests of the inn are just under us, but I didn’t notice them when I walked by. When I got to the other end of the hall I found a large bath room. Those are the public baths, but I didn’t know that then. There were several big tubs with the water tumbling in all the time from the pipes. There was nobody else there nor a sign of anybody. I made myself at home and was floating in one of the tubs when suddenly I heard a monstrous chattering out in the hall and then right into the room walked twenty girls. Maybe there were twice that many. I don’t know. Well, I’ve called upon my practical philosophy to recognize the extenuating virtues of—ah—the natural simplicity of the traditional exposure of the Japanese bath—so to speak—its insecurity—as it were—but—but—h’m—yes—but this was too much.”
I shouted.
He glared.
“I was just thinking——” I tried to say.
“I can see you are just thinking,” he interrupted, “and I know what you are thinking. You are thinking what a great story this will be to tell when we get home. Believe me, if you ever do——”