"But have I lost my figure?" inquired the lithe Madame Oshima, striking an attitude.
To this Ethel did not reply, but continued, "And I would look like a man," for among the Japanese people tight-belted waists and flopping skirts had long since been replaced by the kimo, a single-piece garment worn by both sexes and which fitted the entire body with comfortable snugness.
"And is a man so ill-looking?" asked her companion, smiling.
"Why, no, of course not, only he's different. Why, I couldn't wear a kimo—people would see—my limbs," stammered the properly-bred American girl.
"Why, no, they couldn't," replied Madame Oshima. "Not if you keep your kimo on."
"But they would see my figure."
"Well, I thought you just said that was what you were afraid they wouldn't see."
"But I don't mean that way—they—they could see the shape of my—my legs," said Ethel, blushing crimson.
"Are you ashamed that your body has such vulgar parts?" returned the older woman.
"No, of course not," said Ethel, choking back her embarrassment. "But it's wicked for a girl to let men know such things."