be, whether in the house of the rich or the poor, it always lies
about somewhere on the floor.)

The word "pipe" is at once too trivial and too big to be applied to
this delicate silver tube, which is perfectly straight and at the end
of which, in a microscopic receptacle, is placed one pinch of golden
tobacco, chopped finer than silken thread.

Two puffs, or at most three; it lasts scarcely a few seconds, and the
pipe is finished. Then _pan, pan, pan, pan,_ the little tube is struck
smartly against the edge of the smoking-box to knock out the ashes,
which never will fall; and this tapping, heard everywhere, in every
house, at every hour of the day or night, quick and droll as the
scratching of a monkey, is in Japan one of the noises most
characteristic of human life.

"Anata nominasé!" ("You must smoke too!") says Chrysanthème.

Having again filled the vexatious little pipe, she puts the silver
tube to my lips with a bow. Courtesy forbids my refusal; but I find it
detestably bitter.

Now, before laying myself down under the blue mosquito-net, I open two
of the panels in the room, one on the side of the silent and deserted
footpath, the other one on the garden side, overlooking the terraces,
so that the night air may breathe upon us, even at the risk of
bringing us the company of some belated cockchafer, or more giddy
moth.

Our wooden house, with its thin old walls, vibrates at night like a