CHAPTER II.
Kotmasu and I are seated; and on the floor before us our attendant mousmé places a wonderful bowl of seaweed soup—a dainty thing with sprays of chrysanthemums adorning its china-blue sides, the white-blue that you see in the eyes. To this soup I am used, and also to beans enshrined in sugar, and little fish equally astray from their proper element; but to the live fish, quivering its last quiver, perhaps, I cannot become accustomed, and even to watch Kotmasu—humane man in ordinary—placing the chop-stick impaled morsels in his mouth is almost too much for my still Western stomach. Of the “teal duck” and prawns I partake largely, making the mousmé laugh—so infectious are the emotions in this land of make-
