You wan me be American girl?
You are a witch, Yuki-san, he said.
I wan new dress, she returned, promptly, and held a pink little palm out. He frowned. He almost disliked her when she spoke of money. He filled her hands, however, with change from his pockets, and when she broke away from him, which she did as soon as she had obtained the money, he wanted to take it back. Her pretty laughter sifted out to him through the shoji at the other side, and he knew she was mocking him again.
It is her natural love of dress and finery, he told himself. It is the eternal feminine in her, and it is bewitching.
The next day, as she sat opposite to him, eating her infinitesimal bit of a breakfast—a plum, a small fish, and a tiny cup of tea—all on a little black lacquer tray, he announced mysteriously that he was going on business to the city.
She desired to accompany him, as became a dutiful wife.
No, he told her, that was impossible. His mission was of a secret nature, which could not be divulged until his return.
Then she insisted that she would follow behind him after the manner of a slave; and when he laughed at her, she begged quite humbly and gently that he would condescend to honorably permit her to go with him, and then he was for telling her his whole pretty story, and the surprise he had concocted to please her, when she grew capricious and insisted that she would not stir one little bit of an inch from the house, and that he must go all alone to the city and attend to his great, magnificent business!
He went down to Tokyo, and in his boyish, blundering fashion he purchased silk and crépe and linen sufficient for fifty gowns for her.
She thanked him extravagantly. She could not imagine what she would do with so much finery. Her honorable person was augustly insignificant, and could not accommodate so much merchandise.