the case to-night, he is spending the evening with us.
“What do the women wear? How do they dress? Are their obis as handsome as mine?” and so on.
Kotmasu endeavors to describe the attire of my fellow-countrymen, blundering magnificently over its hidden intricacies.
“It is dull, very dull indeed,” he explains, with an apologetic glance in my direction, as if fearful that I should seek to upset his statement. “There are no colours worn—at least,” he hastens to add, with another glance over in my direction through the tiny cloud of bluish-grey smoke his absurd tobacco-pipe permits him to eject, “not colours like ours. Not like you are wearing, Mousmé.”
I laugh to myself, partially at the perplexed expression on Mousmé’s face, and partially at the idea of her promenading
