These reflections are broken in upon by Miss Cherry-blossom, one of the maids, who glides in, kneels upon the floor, and sets down a tiny round tray with a baby tea-pot and a cup the size of an egg.  Pouring out some tea, enough to half fill one of these porcelain thimbles, she sets it in the socket of another yet tinier tray, and bowing her head coquettishly, begs me to drink.  Having long since learned to quaff Japan’s fragrant beverage guiltless of milk or sugar, I drain the cup.  Miss Cherry-blossom, sitting upright upon her heels, folds her dress neatly under her knees, gives her loose robe a twitch, revealing to advantage her white-powdered neck, the prized point of beauty in a Japanese maiden, and then asks the usual questions as to whence I came, whither I am going, and to what country I belong.  These, according to the Japanese code of etiquette, are all polite questions; and in return, violating no dictum which the purists of Kioto or Yeddo have laid down, I inquire her age ("Your honorable years, how many?").  The answer, “Ju-hachi,” makes known that she is eighteen years of age.  Chatting further, I learn what things there are to be seen in the neighborhood, whether foreigners have been there before, the distance to the next village, the history of the old temple near by, etc.  All this is told with many a laugh and a little pantomime—­she naturally committing the mistake of speaking louder and faster to the foreigner who cannot fully understand her dialect or allusions—­when a new character appears upon the scene.

A very jolly, matronly-looking woman, evidently the landlady, pulls aside one of the sliding paper doors, and bowing low on her hands and knees, smiles cavernously with her jet-black teeth, which, like all correct and cleanly women in Japan, she dyes on alternate days.  She asks concerning dinner, and whether it is the honorable wish of the visitor to eat Japanese food.  The answer being affirmative, both matron and maiden disappear to prepare the meal, evidently thinking it a fine joke.  No such thing as a common dining-room exists in Japanese hotels.  Caste has hitherto been too strictly observed to allow of such an idea.  Every guest eats in his own room, sitting on his calves and heels.  The preparations are simple, though of course I speak now of every-day life.

Miss Peach-blossom appears, bearing in her hand a table four inches high, one foot square, and handsomely lacquered red and black.  Behind her comes a young girl carrying a rice-box and plate of fish.  Most gracefully she sets it down with the apology, “I have kept you long waiting,” and the invitation, “Please take up.”