on the garden side, ere a charming little scrap of an attendant mousmé, with a dress of yellow silk and scarlet satin obi, presents herself to take our orders.
She stands in the lantern-light just outside the doorway, caressing her knees with her tiny hands, and smiling and showing her pretty teeth in anticipation of receiving a “good order.”
After a hurried consultation with Mousmé, who says, “Sugar plums! Oranges! Tea!” the little gay-hued waitress flits away in search of what we have ordered.
The garden, of which the owner is so proud that he calls it that of “The Hundred Beautiful Lights,” is a quaintly pretty one. Just behind our little summer-house, with its octagon roof of thin split laths of mahoghany and paper shoji, with French-grey backgrounds adorned with country views by a local artist who
