It is the house of Saya
in this, that all men come sooner or later to the silk bazaar.
Outside, the roads are lined with rich avenues of trees, and houses, most of which are neat and attractive. Flowers are grown in front of the doorways ; here a cluster of roses, there a line of pink and yellow balsams. In front of one house, making a cool green screen between it and the road, is a trellis work of posts, covered with the betel-vine. Pah, maker of the gold lacquer-ware for which his town is famed. It is lifted high on posts, and he meets me at the foot of his stairs, shekoing on his knees. I cannot discover any servility in the attitude or in the action as he performs it. It seems to me suggestive only of good manners. The old man, whose face is that of an artist, is clad only in a waist-cloth and is unashamed. Why should he be ashamed?
His daughter, a pretty girl of sixteen, laughingly shakes handsaE n g 1i s h fashion. Timiditv and self-possession make a little battle in her face, but she is
a daughter of the soila daughter of the soil