silver, with a pigmy bowl at the end—which the mousmé had now brought us.
The jars placed before each of us, filled with sweet-scented tobacco of the colour of tow, and so “mild” that a baby might have inhaled its smoke; the spittoons and the porcelain stove containing the glowing embers at which we lit our pipes; always made me smile—they were so toy-like and minute—and long for my briar and honey-dew.
“Yes?” I replied interrogatively between the puffs. “Shall I tell Gazelle” (for such was the mousmé’s poetic name) “to summon one?” he continued.
Why not? I had seen them many times before, it was true; but we were in no hurry, and they were always graceful, dainty, pretty and amusing—at least the best of them were, and no one troubled about those who were not.
“Is there dancing?” Kotmasu asked
