On one side it skirted the mountain, all covered with a tangle of wet ferns; on the other appeared a large wooden house almost devoid of openings and of evil aspect; it was there that my djin halted.
What, was that sinister-looking house the Garden of Flowers?
He assured me that it was, and seemed very sure of the fact.

We knocked at a large door which opened immediately, slipping back in its groove.

Then two funny little women appeared, oldish-looking, but with evident pretensions to youth: exact types of the figures painted on vases, with their tiny hands and feet.
On catching sight of me they threw themselves on all fours, their faces touching the floor.

Good gracious! What can be the matter?
I asked myself.

Nothing at all, it was only the ceremonious salute, to which I am as yet unaccustomed.