ing the door. The zing, zing of the samisen suddenly ceased, and the girls’ voices stopped their monotonous, chant-like song. Then came the sound of other voices seemingly in argument; then a recommencement of the previous noises as before our mousmé had interrupted the proceedings.
Then we hear Gazelle returning.
“Alone?” I suggest to my companion, who merely shakes his head and laughs, replying, “No. The geisha is light of foot—a butterfly, coming without sound, the heavy circling flutter of her fan like the beatings of the wings of the great grey moths outside there in the garden.”
The footsteps of Gazelle came on, and then halted outside. There was no knocking at the door. How can one beat upon fragile paper panels with one’s fist? And the usual little knocker of brass, a grotesque lizard, or miniature lion-
