"Where is my friend, the other foreigner?"
Her slim hand indicated vaguely the long row of closed sliding partitions before them. "There, somewhere. Now, these are my rooms; please enter." She placed a silk cushion in front of him, sank to the floor, prostrated herself before him, face held low towards her hands spread flat on the _tatami_, waiting.
"Thank you." He squatted on the cushion. She rose.
"Please." With deft fingers she brought out the minute paraphernalia, doll-like cups and teapot, poured hot water from the kettle simmering over the glowing charcoal in the _hibachi_. He looked about; speckless as usual, and dainty, cozy. She had managed to give the room an air of personality, almost homelike, pathetic, with a doll enthroned on a little couch of her own contrivance, her small cupboard showing through glass doors frail china, figurines, temple charms, souvenirs from little excursions which formed the great events of her life. The partition to the next room had been slid aside. He glimpsed chests of fine-grained, unpainted wood where she kept her finery. A pile of crimson silk _futon_, great wadded quilts, formed a bed on the floor, almost filling the tiny room. He finished his tea, then she indicated the room beyond.
"And now, danna-san, if it pleases you to retire, I shall change my kimono."
He looked at her. Through the evening he had hardly noticed her, as she sat behind him, silent, self-effacive, like a brilliantly colored, hardly perceived shadow. How young she was, and how expressionless her face, unlined, untouched by the exactions of her sorry trade--almost like that of the doll over there, vapidly pretty with its eternal smile. "No, I think not, not now." He noted the wondering, half-frightened expression on her face, and hurried on. "What's the name of your doll?"
Her face brightened, became alive. "Oh, that's Tamayo-san, tamayo, egg, you know, because she's so fat. I have two more. Would you like to see them?" He would. She brought them out. This one had been sent her from her father, from Kiryu. As she prattled on, he drew from her her little history. Daughter of a tenant farmer; she had worked at silk spinning. Then the house had been destroyed by a typhoon, and, like several other girls in her village, she had gone to the Yoshiwara, snapped up by one of the agile agents whom news of the disaster had brought to the spot, alert for business. "They paid fifteen hundred yen for me," she said proudly. "But then, this is one of the best houses, and then I was only sixteen. I am eighteen now."