“Her people are rich, but still they might be induced to sell her.”
“Man alive,” I say, without remembering that Kotmasu’s English does not extend to a knowledge of such a phrase, “what do you think I want?”
He is laconic, and smiles. “Hyacinth—the mousmé.”
“Yes! but it is not for a temporary marriage”—I dress the phrase almost instinctively—“I want to marry her. Marry her as a wife, before the consul, or any one else, for that matter. Do you understand?”
Kotmasu’s face is a study of simulated obtuseness.
At last, however, I make him understand, show him that I am in earnest.
Then he argues the matter in the politest Japanese, so as to magnify my “honourable position and name” as much as possible, and without detracting from that of Miss Hyacinth, show me my error.
