IV
I was seated in the office of that flourishing Tōkyō newspaper, Yorodsu Chōhō—waiting for my friend the sub-editor, whose name, Kishimoto Bunkyo, will one day be famous, when my tedium was enlivened by an apparition. In spite of the care taken to entertain foreigners in the waiting-room of that popular journal, I had been bored. The square of Brussels carpet, the presence of table and chairs, the permission to keep one's shoes on, the literary delights afforded by Macaulay's "Essays," Washington Irving's "Sketch-book," and Mr. Stead's "If Christ came to Chicago"—all these things failed to dispel that ennui, born of perpetual waiting, which only Oriental patience can endure. Suddenly entered this welcome apparition, feminine, furious. "Is there any one here who speaks English?" it asked impetuously. The old door-keeper, catching at the sound "English," muttered the word "Kishimoto," and climbed the stairs in quest of my friend. The apparition and myself were thus left alone, and eyed each other furtively, with embarrassment. At any other time I should have been delighted to make the acquaintance of this pretty, smart American, but an instinct warned me that her business was private and delicate. I pretended to
