the neck and had no sleeves worth mentioning. How she got into it or out
of it was a problem that distracted me half the night, when I was trying
to plan for her soul's salvation. I could not hide my amazement at her
appearance. She as closely resembled my idea of an American girl as a
cartoon does a miniature; but I had seen so very few girls of my country
since my coming to Japan. I remembered hearing Jane say that the styles
now change there every two or three years. My new skirt, I've had only
five years, has seven pleats and as many more gores.

Zura Wingate advanced to my lowly seat on the floor and listlessly put
out one hand to greet me. The other she held behind her. It had been
years since I had shaken hands with any one. I was ill at ease, and made
more so by realizing that I did not know what to say to this
self-contained child of my own beloved land. I made a brilliant start,
however. "Howdy. Do you like Japan?"

The answer came with the sudden energy of a popgun: "No." Then she sat
down close to a hibachi, her back against the wall.

I went on, determined to be friendly. "I am sure you will find much of
interest here. All the beauties of Japan are not on the surface. The
loveliness of the scenery and the picturesqueness of the people will
appeal to you."

The phrase was about as new as "Mary had a little lamb," but it was all
I could think to say. My conversational powers seemed off duty.

The girl scented my confusion and a half-smile crept around her lips.

"Country's all right," she answered. "But the natives are like punk