to belong to us, as though the ghosts of possible future tenants already possessed it. Poor tiny house, which will probably know Mousmé’s laugh no more!
Whilst Mousmé is wrapping up our presents in soft, silky textured rice-paper ready for their recipients, I get together some of my things.
Alas! when I come to sort my clothing, I am made painfully aware that when I land in England I shall be shabby and out-of-date.
There is a whole pile of European clothing on the floor near my writing-table, the sunlight cruelly exposing all its shabbinesses; but little of it will be of use. I shall give some of the best of the garments remaining when I have selected mine, to Mousmé’s two elder brothers. They will be delighted even if the things don’t fit. They possess minds happily unvexed by such momentous questions as “bagging at
