in the security of their boudoirs than elsewhere. Japanese women, never. Their conduct is eternally the same. It must be as if some one were looking on—always. There is no privacy for them short of the grave. They have no secure boudoirs.
But Madame Butterfly (through the courtesy of her American husband) had both these. It will therefore be argued, perhaps, that she is not a typical Japanese woman. But it is only Lieutenant Pinkerton's views about which we are presently concerned. He called her an American refinement of a Japanese product, an American improvement in a Japanese invention, and so on. And since he knew her best, his words concerning her should have a certain ex-cathedra authority. I know no more.
And she and the maid, and the baby too, were discussing precisely the matters which have interested us hitherto—Pinkerton, his baby, his imminent return, etc.
Cho-Cho-San, with a deft jerk that was also a caress, brought the baby into her lap as she sat suddenly up.
"Ah, you—you think he is just like any other baby. But he is a miracle! Yes!"
