on us, a very gust
of dainty youthfulness and droll gayety--a living peal of laughter. She
is round of figure, round of face; half baby, half girl; and so
affectionate that she bestows kisses on the slightest occasion with her
great puffy lips--a little moist, it is true, like a child's, but
nevertheless very fresh and very red.

CHAPTER XV

Our dwelling is open all the night through, and the lamps burning before
the gilded Buddha bring us the company of the insect inhabitants of every
garden in the neighborhood. Moths, mosquitoes, cicalas, and other
extraordinary insects of which I don't even know the names--all this
company assembles around us.

It is extremely funny, when some unexpected grasshopper, some
free-and-easy beetle presents itself without invitation or excuse,
scampering over our white mats, to see the manner in which Chrysantheme
indicates it to my righteous vengeance--merely pointing her finger at it,
without another word than "Hou!" said with bent head, a particular pout,
and a scandalised air.

There is a fan kept expressly for the purpose of blowing them out of
doors again.

CHAPTER XVI

SLEEPING JAPAN

Here I must own that my story must appear to the reader to drag a little.

Lacking exciting intrigues and tragic adventures, I wish I knew how to
infuse into it a little of the sweet perfumes of the gardens which
surround me, something of the gentle warmth of the sunshine, of the shade
of these graceful trees. Love being wanting, I should like it to breathe
of the restful tranquillity of this faraway spot. Then, too, I should
like it to reecho the sound of Chrysantheme's guitar, in which I begin to
find a certain charm, for want of something better, in the silence of the
lovely summer evenings.

All through these moonlit nights of July, the weather has been calm,
luminous, and magnificent. Ah, what glorious clear nights! What exquisite
roseate tints beneath that wonderful moon, what mystery of blue shadows
in the thick tangle of trees! And, from the heights where stood our
veranda, how prettily the town lay sleeping at our feet!

After all, I do not positively detest this little Chrysantheme, and when
there is no repugnance on either side, habit turns into a makeshift of
attachment.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SONG OF THE CICALA

Forever, throughout everything, rises day and night from the whole
country the song of the cicalas, ceaseless, strident, and insistent. It
is every