Two blocks away Ethel Ogden was indulging in bitter reflections, in which Jim Patterson and Julian Barclay largely figured—much to the detriment of the English lesson. But Maru Takasaki came of a patient race, and neither by word or sign betrayed his knowledge of Ethel’s inattention or the flight of time.
“The President leaves tomorrow for California,” announced Ethel, awakening from her day dreams.
“Is it so?” and Takasaki took up his pencil, his voice expressing mild surprise.
“He is not really going,” explained Ethel, her face dimpling into a smile. “I used the first sentence that came into my head for dictation purposes. I suppose to mention the Mikado in such a manner would be lèse majesté in your country?”
Instead of replying Takasaki contented himself with writing out the dictation in his precise, careful writing, and Ethel, leaning across the table examined the paper with interest.
“Very well done,” she said. “I think I have gotten you to remember the definite and indefinite articles.”
“I thank you so much.” Takasaki’s deferential bow always delighted Ethel, it was the only thing expressive and individual about the Japanese. “My wife, who studied at the English school for the highborn in Nippon, predicts that I do well.”
“Madame Takasaki is a very earnest scholar,” commented Ethel. “It delights me to see her pegging away so silently.”
“Pegging?” Takasaki eyed Ethel in puzzled surprise, the word did not fit into his knowledge of English; then a grieved look crept into his eyes, and he said in a tone of the blankest astonishment. “Mees Ogden, did you ever hear a noise I made?”
Ethel hastened to reassure him. “No, I never did,” she said with honest vehemence. “You and your wife are the most silent pupils I have.”