Mousmé is leaning over me as I write. Mousmé, a butterfly from a far Eastern land, her dress of apricot silk, with a magenta satin _obi_ (sash), a blot of bright colour in the dulness of my English study. My Mousmé! with Dresden-china tinted cheeks, and tiny ways; playing at life, as it always seems to me, with the dainty grace of Japan, that idealised doll’s-house land. Mousmé, who goes with me everywhere, whose _bizarre_ clothing attracts notice to her even when the delicately pretty face of a child-woman with innocent, soft eyes and finely arched brows is hidden behind the ever-present fan, which she draws from the ample folds of her _obi_. My friends at Nagasaki told me that I was fooli…
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