I began to feel like a star with all the admirers in the earth.
A garden tree sent its shadow through the window. The time passed as gracefully as a fairy on tiptoe. The air was purple.
Oscar San chatted freely.
I never took the part of a listener before in my life. I found listening honourable.
“So you like the Oriental woman?” I said.
He said American beauty was rather external, like a street shop window. He would like to know, he said, if there was any word more pathetic than “sayonara.”
“Isn’t the Japanese woman like it?” he asked.
I thought he was correct.
He continued:
“I read in a modern poet the following lines: