knew instinctively that he would have whistled.
“Why Bond Street?” I asked somewhat feebly, with just a shade of chilliness at my heart from the incongruity conjured up by his words.
“Because,” he replied slowly, “that would be a good test.”
I might have attempted a reply, but there is a sudden glow of light on the verandah, a yellow-red, diffused light, which fails to pierce the gloom at the far end, and Mousmé and Oka appear with the lanterns.
Mousmé gives me a kiss, to the peril of her lantern with its monster of a crayfish painted in vermilion on its yellow side; at which Kotmasu smiles indulgently; then we start off.
We go away down our garden—which has such narrow paths, some of them scarcely less pigmy than those associated in my memory with the garden of child-
