toward the
tub of boiling water. "But that's too hot; we shall be boiled sitting on
the top of a fire," I explain. Thereupon a great commotion ensues,
embers are raked out, and there is much running about and chattering.
The Japs themselves take their baths at a temperature which would peel
the skin off our bodies. As the water is still too hot, even when the
fire has been removed, we wait for it to cool, and meantime I ask where
is the other bath, as there are two of us? This produces great
consternation in Yosoji; who ever heard of each person having a bath to
himself? The notion is absurd. He knows the ridiculous prejudice of the
English, who do not like to use the same water as the Japanese, but, as
it happens, this water is perfectly clean, for even the gentleman who
has just gone out did not use it. Is it possible we can't use it, one
after the other? I ask him what state the water gets into when half a
dozen people have been boiled in it, one after another, and he tells me
that it is in no state at all, for, of course, etiquette does not allow
them to use soap actually in the bath! Well, we must manage somehow;
when they clear out we can tip some of the hot water into that second
basin and use it afterwards. Meantime they all stand, gaily expectant,
smiling affably. I explain to Yosoji that we can't undress before the
crowd, and he seems to think my ideas most extraordinary. In Japan
people always bathe in a garment and have not the least objection to
doing it in full view of the street.

With considerable difficulty our absurd scruples are made clear to the
assembled company, who reluctantly depart, defrauded of their fun, and
draw close the sliding screen.

Then--yah--it _is_ hot! We manage to tip out two good basins full and
fill up with cold water from a tin pail which stands near. Well, we both
find it very refreshing. You go first, and while I am revelling in the
hot water I hear a dismayed exclamation, "Oh, the towels!" and see you
holding up a tiny thing no bigger than a table-napkin, embroidered in a
wandering blue pattern. There are two for each, and though they are
little more than pocket-handkerchiefs we must make them do.

When we get back to our rooms in a more or less steamy condition, we
find that the screens, which are made of paper framed in wood, have been
drawn, and outside them wooden shutters have been fastened. The room is
very close, and there isn't an inch open for ventilation. After a