"Res'! Sleep! Not till he come!"
"Res'—peace—sleep—beauty," chanted the maid, persuasively. But her mistress would not.
"Now, hasten lig you got eagle's wings an' a thousan' feet! It will not be one hour—not one half—till he will be here. My pink kimono—widest obi—kanzashi for my hair an' poppies. I will be more beautiful than I have aever been. Flowers—alas! there are no cherry-blossoms. How that is sad! Seem lig we cannot be gay without them. In the month of the cherry-blossoms we were marry! But chrysanthemums—all of them! An' lanterns if it be black night—'mos' one thousan'! Aha, ha, ha! His house shall be gayer than it has aever been. There shall naever again be such good occasion."
"Res' is beauty," urged the maid, holding up the mirror to her.
"Ah, Suzuki! I am beautiful—as beautiful as when he went away?"
The maid was silent—the Japanese silence which is not assent.
Cho-Cho-San snatched the metallic mirror out of her hand.
"I am!" she cried savagely. "Say so!"
