“Be honorably pleased to enter.”

Inside, the tea house was scrupulously clean.  The bare boards in the hall seemed worn thin by scrubbing and nowhere were any furniture or ornaments except the hanging scroll.  The floors were covered with soft wicker mats and presently they were all seated in a semicircle at one end of the room.  The younger members of the party were in a perfect gale of subdued laughter by this time.  Elinor, too dignified to look where she was going, had stubbed her august toe and for at least half a minute had hopped on one foot in an agony of pain.  Nicholas had privately circulated a rumor that live carp would be one of the courses, and not to eat a small piece would give grievous offense to the Nesan and her musumes.

After a little table about a foot high had been placed before each guest, a procession of miniature waitresses entered with the dinner.  In quick succession were served fish soup, crushed birds with sugared walnuts and oranges, broiled fish with tiny balls of sweetened potatoes, and numerous other strange but not unpalatable dishes, and all the while streams of hors d’ouvres:  horseradish, spinach and seaweed.  But they were not obliged to eat with chop sticks.  Mr. Buxton had provided knives and forks.

At last with the greatest ceremony, the little proprietor herself appeared bearing a large silver tray.

“Here it comes,” whispered Nicholas.  “What did I tell you?”

There, sure enough, was the carp, taken from the water a moment before and sliced into delicate pink steaks.  He lay on a bed of fresh water grasses and leaves, and each portion was served in a dainty mat of twisted grass.  Nobody refused a sacrificial morsel, but only Yoritomo and Mr. Buxton had the courage to eat it.  Mr. Buxton swallowed his at a gulp and Miss Campbell shivered all over at the sight.

“How could you?” she exclaimed in a whisper.

“Etiquette,” he answered.  “I would swallow a mouse for the sake of etiquette in this polite country.”

During the dinner there had been a sound of suppressed laughter and the tinkle of music behind the partitions, and now, after the last round of the innumerable courses had been served, the partitions were shoved aside and four samisen players entered followed by eight dancing girls.  Nothing could equal the grace of their bows as they glided softly in.  Their smiles of welcome were inimitable.  Then their faces became grave and serious and the dance began.  The oldest was hardly more than fifteen and the youngest about ten.  They were like sober-faced little dolls in gorgeous brocaded robes as they paraded, stamped their white-stockinged feet and postured with elaborate fans.

Mme. Fontaine, who had eaten no dinner and talked very little, watched the dancers with intense interest.

“Are they not charming little creatures?” she asked Mr. Campbell.  “They are trained to be so,—­to sing, dance and amuse and to look pretty.  But I assure you some of them develop into splendid women.  Many of them marry well.  The geisha girl is not always a butterfly.”