"It is interesting, Tom," said Cleo, from a window, "the streets are so funny outside. They are narrow as anything, and there are signboards everywhere."
Mrs. Ballard looked helplessly about the room.
"Tom, what do you suppose they will give us to eat? I have heard such funny tales about their queer cooking—chicken cooked in molasses, and—and raw fish—and——"
"Mother," put in the girl, impatiently, "this hotel is on the American plan. The little bell-boys and servants, of course, are Japanese—but everything will be as much like what we have at home as they can make it."
Both the mother and daughter were out of patience with everything and were tired, the mother being almost hysterical. Tom went over to her and tried to calm her down, talking in his easy, consoling way on every subject that would take her mind off Sinclair. After a time Mrs. Ballard's nervousness had quieted down, and she rested, her maid sitting beside her fanning her gently, while Tom and Cleo unpacked what luggage they had had in their staterooms with them, their other trunks not having arrived. The girl was feeling more cheerful.
"When I go back to America," she said, "I believe I'll take a little Japanese maid with me. They are so neat and amusing."
Tom looked at her gravely. "I thought you contemplated making your home here?" he quizzed.
"Perhaps I will," the girl said, saucily, "perhaps I won't. It depends on whether my mind changes itself."
"Hum!"