"That last item," said Orthodocia, who had come in with the excuse of some tea, "is frightfully correct."
Having despatched the business of the hour and a half, the reporter began to enjoy himself, while Orthodocia and I tried to seat ourselves where we couldn't see each other's faces in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He drank his tea with his head on a level with the table, and if suction can express approval it was expressed. He said that there were fourteen editorial writers on his _shimbun_, and that its circulation was one million. Which shows that for the soul of a newspaper man Shintoism has no obvious advantages. He dwelt upon the weather for quarters of an hour at a time. The Japanese are such a leisurely people. He took more tea, by this time stone cold. He said he would bring a Japanese "gentleman and rady" to see us, and in response to our inquiry as to whether the lady was the wife or the sister of the gentleman, he said, with gravity, "I do not know the rady's wife." He asked us for our photographs, and when Orthodocia retired at this for the fifth time he thought she had gone to get them, and stayed until I was compelled to go and pray her to return. It was the ringing of the two o'clock lunch bell that suggested to him that the day was waning, and that perhaps he had better wane too.
There's a little gray friar in yonder green bush, Clothed in sackcloth--a little gray friar, Like the druid of old in his temple--but hush! He's at vespers; you must not go nigher.
Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies, And around us so wantonly float, Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies From the silvery reel of his throat?
When he roams, though he stains not his path through the air With the splendour of tropical wings, All the lustre denied to his russet plumes there Flashes forth through his lay when he sings;
For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise, Though in such a plain garb he appears, That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes, He steals in through the gates of your ears.
But the cheat!--'tis not heaven he's warbling about-- Other passions, less holy, betide-- For behold, there's a little gray nun peeping out From a bunch of green leaves at his side.