The girl’s costume was more remarkable than the girl herself; it was like a velvet pillow slip with neither beginning nor end.  It was low in 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 imitations of a vaudeville poster; they’re the extension of the limit.”

Her words, although English, were as incomprehensible to me as if I had never heard the language, but her scorn was unmistakable.  As if to emphasize it, the hand she had persistently held behind her was thrust forward toward the burning coals in the hibachi.  Her fingers held a half burnt cigarette.  This she lighted, and without embarrassment or enjoyment began to smoke.

An American girl smoking!  I was shocked, but I held tight.

“Do you smoke much?” I asked, for the want of something better to say.

“Never smoked before.  But my august, heaven-born grandfather, who to my mind is descended direct from the devil, wishes me to adopt the customs of his country.  Thought I’d start with this.”

“But,” I reminded her, “it is not the custom in this country for young girls to smoke.”

“Oh, isn’t it?”—­indifferently—­“it doesn’t matter.  Had to begin on something or—­die.”

The spasm of pain which swept the girl’s face stirred within me a memory long forgotten.

Once, when my own starved youth had wearied and clamored anew for an outlet, I had determined on a reckless adventure.  From corn-shucks and dried grass I made a cigar which I tried to smoke.  It gave me the most miserable penitent hour I have ever known.  The picture of the child of long ago hiding in the corn crib until recovery was possible caused me now to shake with laughter.