who sat on my left, evidently with H. G. Wells and Berard Shaw in his mind, was going to expand his opinion on the English departure from stereotyped solidarity, at least in literature. Did I listen to him? Not I. As my mind lately has grown to be delighted in simplicity, my eyes most ardently fell on the menu; I confess that such an innocent word written on it gave me a far better impression than words spoken by poets from the golden clime. I read the menu from top to bottom, and again from bottom to top; when I could not find anything special, I set my eyes on the date printed at the top, “December 14th, 1911,” as if on the name of some strange new dish.
“Oh, this is the fourteenth of December,” I exclaimed in my dreamy mind.
I raised my face to the looking-glass on the opposite side, where a large part of the scene of the banquet (what a monkey show, indeed!) was reflected, all the guests in Western dress, quite skilful in handling knives and forks, looking even natural as if they were born with butter and bread; I presently asked myself as in a dream if this was real Japan where our
