we talk together, I smiling inwardly at her funny phrasing.
“You speakee Japanese good,” she says, with a glance from her sparkling eyes, and red lips wide open in her struggle with the last word.
I, of course, compliment her equally upon her English, which I assert is “wonderful,” “charming.”
This is all very interesting, and I more decidedly—most decidedly—wish to marry her.
I do not altogether like my mamma-in-law. But no doubt matters can be so arranged that my domestic peace will not be too frequently broken in upon, nor my artistic sense too often shocked by her puffy cheeks, inane smile and gimlet-hole eyes. To see her salute me—to witness the elevation of the immense bow of her dove-coloured silk obi as she bent to the floor—was too comical.
