neighbors. Yves, the big Yves, who is not going to be married, stands
behind me, with a comical grimace, hardly repressing his
laughter,--while to give myself time to collect my ideas, I offer tea
in little cups, little spittoons and embers to the company.

Nevertheless, my discomfited air does not escape my visitors. M.
Kangourou anxiously inquires:

"How do I like her?" And I reply in a low voice, but with great
resolution:

"Not at all! I won't have that one. Never!"

I believe that this remark was almost understood in the circle around
me. Consternation was depicted on every face, the jaws dropped, the
pipes went out. And now I address my reproaches to Kangourou: "Why had
he brought her to me in such pomp, before friends and neighbors of
both sexes, instead of showing her to me discreetly as if by chance,
as I had wished? What an affront he will compel me now to put upon all
these polite persons!"

The old ladies (the mamma no doubt and aunts), prick up their ears,
and M. Kangourou translates to them, softening as much as possible, my
heartrending decision. I feel really almost sorry for them; the fact
is, that for women who, not to put too fine a point upon it, have come
to sell a child, they have an air I was not prepared for: I can hardly
say an air of _respectability_ (a word in use with us, which is
absolutely without meaning in Japan), but an air of unconscious and
good-natured simplicity; they are only accomplishing an act perfectly
admissible in their world, and really it all resembles, more than I