"If we meet too often," argued T'an Ch'un, "there won't be fun in it. We should simply come together two or three times in a month."
"It will be ample if we meet twice or thrice a month," Pao-ch'ai added. "But when the dates have been settled neither wind nor rain should prevent us. Exclusive, however, of these two days, any one in high spirits and disposed to have an extra meeting can either ask us to go over to her place, or you can all come to us; either will do well enough! But won't it be more pleasant if no hard-and-fast dates were laid down?"
"This suggestion is excellent," they all exclaimed.
"This idea was primarily originated by me," T'an Ch'un observed, "and I should be the first to play the hostess, so that these good spirits of mine shouldn't all go for nothing."
"Well, after this remark," Li Wan proceeded, "what do you say to your being the first to convene a meeting to-morrow?"
"To-morrow," T'an Ch'un demurred, "is not as good as to-day; the best thing is to have it at once! You'd better therefore choose the subjects, while Ling Chou can fix the metre, and Ou Hsieh act as supervisor."
"According to my ideas," Ying Ch'un chimed in, "we shouldn't yield to the wishes of any single person in the choice of themes and the settlement of the rhythm. What would really be fair and right would be to draw lots."
"When I came just now," Li Wan pursued, "I noticed them bring in two pots of white begonias, which were simply beautiful; and why should you not write some verses on them?"
"Can we write verses," Ying Ch'un retorted, "before we have as yet seen anything of the flowers?"
"They're purely and simply white begonias," Pao-chai answered, "and is there again any need to see them before you put together your verses? Men of old merely indited poetical compositions to express their good cheer and conceal their sentiments; had they waited to write on things they had seen, why, the whole number of their works would not be in existence at present!"
"In that case," Ying Ch'un said, "let me fix the metre."
With these words, she walked up to the book-case, and, extracting a volume, she opened it, at random, at some verses which turned out to be a heptameter stanza. Then handing it round for general perusal, everybody had to compose lines with seven words in each. Ying Ch'un next closed the book of verses and addressed herself to a young waiting-maid. "Just utter," she bade her, "the first character that comes to your mouth."