"We are going to the _Garden of Flowers_, are we not?" I inquired,
anxious to ascertain if I had been understood.

"Yes, yes," replied the djin, "it is up there, and quite near."

The road turned, steep banks hemming it in and darkening it. On one
side, it skirted the mountain all covered with a tangle of wet ferns;
on the other appeared a large wooden house almost devoid of apertures
and of evil aspect; it was there that my djin halted.

What, that sinister-looking house was the _Garden of Flowers_? He
assured me that it was, and seemed very sure of the fact. We knocked
at a big door which opened immediately, slipping back in its groove.
Then two funny little women appeared, oldish-looking, but with evident
pretensions to youth: exact types of the figures painted on vases,
with their baby hands and feet.

On catching sight of me, they threw themselves on all fours, their
faces touching the floor. Good gracious! what can be the matter?
Nothing at all, it is only the ceremonious salute to which I am as yet
unaccustomed. They rise, and proceed to take off my boots (one never
keeps on one's shoes in a Japanese house), wiping the bottom of my
trousers and feeling my shoulders to see if I am wet.

What always strikes one on first entering a Japanese dwelling is the
extreme cleanliness, and white and chilling bareness of the rooms.

Over the most irreproachable mattings, without a crease, a line, or a
stain, I am led upstairs to the first story and ushered into a big
empty room, absolutely empty! The paper walls are mounted on sliding