For days he went about in a state of irritating uncertainty. What should be his next step? There was no good reason for seeking further speech with the Viscount for the present. Obviously the alternative was to contrive to meet her on her way to or from the office, but this method was distasteful to him, savored too much of lying in wait for her, stalking her, as might a rouÉ bent on philanderous enterprise. On the other hand, his conscience troubled him. Here it was possible, even likely that this girl might hold the key to his story, might give him the starting point which he needed. He owed loyalty to his paper. He felt that he was caught in a dilemma from which he might not extricate himself entirely honorably.

One morning, at the Foreign Office, young Kikuchi dropped a chance remark that his father had gone to Odawara for a few days. The idea struck Kent that here lay the way out. Fate seemed deliberately to have thrown the solution in his way, so he might see her without resorting to slinking contrivances. He looked at his watch. It was half-past eleven; this was Saturday and quite likely she would leave at noon. He hurried to her office. She was evidently about to leave.

"I am sorry. The Viscount has gone to the country." He thought he detected a hint of mischief in her eyes. Did she suspect him?

Would he have some tea? She came to his rescue before he had bethought himself of the next step. What a blessing that eternal tea-drinking ceremonial could prove at times. Why, of course, he should like it very much.

So again he found himself in one of the Viscount's great chairs, alone with her. She brought the tray with tea and cigarettes. His success made him bolder. "Have some with me, please do."

It startled her a little. "Why, of course not."

"Why not? It is the custom in foreign countries, and I am a foreigner. Please?"

She smiled at his earnestness and gave in. Presently they were sipping tea together. The scene assumed an air of intimacy. They chatted pleasantly. The light silk shawl about her shoulders gave him a cue. "You're about to go out, are you not. I really shouldn't keep you, but——"

"No, it's all right. It is Saturday, and I was thinking of going to the pictures."

The pictures! So she was another of Japan's millions of movie worshipers who form their ideas of Western civilization from the frenzied life of the cinema, Wild West pictures of cowboys rescuing lovely heroines from Indians and bandits, dainty damsels abducted in madly racing automobiles, passionate love scenes in lavishly upholstered abodes of plutocracy, gun-play and murder in city streets—all the wildly gyrating, delirious melodrama which ingenuous Japan seriously believes to be representative of life on the other side of the ocean. The thought of the discomfort of most of the Tokyo movie theaters, ramshackle fire-traps crowded with squirming, perspiring humanity, stifling in the afternoon heat, repelled him; still, it would not matter.

"I like the pictures very much too," he lied. "I wish you would let me go with you."

But she shook her head determinedly. No, a foreigner and a Japanese girl! It was too unusual.

"But are you then so old-fashioned?" He noted her quick frown. He had gained a little. "Are you then one of these Japanese who, like the old shoguns, want to hold Japan apart from the rest of civilization?" Now he knew he had the right argument.

She flashed at him. "I am not old-fashioned." Her tone softened a little. "But, of course, you know it is a little unusual for a Japanese girl and a foreign man to go on the street together."

He sensed that he had won and made no further argument, only rose and waited while she took away the tray. Together they went down the steps.

"And now where?" he asked.

"Why, Uyeno, of course, the art exhibition. I thought you——"

He hastened to cut her short. "Yes, I know. But it is far. Let us have tiffin first. Where? What do you prefer, Japanese or foreign food."

He knew she would prefer the rare experience of a foreign restaurant, as Japanese girls almost invariably do. They went to one of the best in Tokyo, a large, airy place thoroughly modern, a hot, wet towel in a small wicker tray, for wiping the face after the meal, being the sole concession to Japanese custom. As he sat facing her, he watched appreciatively the dainty grace with which her slim fingers, long practiced in agile manipulation of chopsticks, managed easily the unfamiliar silver. She was enjoying it, flushed a little, happily. He knew he would gain pleasure from this germinating friendship.

He wished to call a taxi, but she restrained him. "No, Uyeno is not so far. We will go by tram."

But why bother about a crowded tram? Taxis were not such a luxury.

"But they are a luxury. Why should we spend money needlessly when the masses of the people must ride in trams or even walk. It is wrong." Her earnestness amused him. The deep seriousness of her expression lent her a charm as that of a child artlessly philosophizing. What odd surprises they held, the minds of these Japanese girls, ideas shaped from impressions gained God knows where. They compromised on an auto-bus.

The exhibition was crowded. It had always pleased him to note the character of the people who thronged such places, art galleries, concerts, theaters, high and low, rich and poor, a great number, in fact, persons to whom even the smallest fee must mean sacrifice of some material need. And here they were, as usual, small merchants, poorly paid artisans, some even fairly close to the coolie type, solemnly, seriously viewing the pictures, saying but little, absorbing, gratifying a natural, spontaneous love of beauty. What would happen to a New York bricklayer should he suggest to his mate that they go to see the Metropolitan Art Gallery? The grotesque contrast of the idea amused him.

They went through the Japanese art section first. He always enjoyed this part the best, for while he had small technical knowledge of art, he sensed a subtle gratification from the consummate perfection which the artists of Nippon had attained in this field of their own where century after century of painstakingly striving lovers of beauty had succeeded in gradually climbing higher and higher towards fashioning in concrete form the mirages of their vision. The eye rested, filled itself with the wealth of delicate beauty of pure, surely drawn lines, marvelously blended symphonies of color, almost imperceptible nuances of shade and tint, a myriad of infinitely carefully elaborated details which the makers contrived to weld into perfectly balanced, full-toned consonance. There were the tremendous six-leafed screen paintings, incidents from legend or history of feudal Japan, knights in armor with long two-handed swords, archers with bow and quiver, women in scintillating kimono and elaborate coiffure, or, of even more ancient period, in simple flowing robes and with hair falling loose over their shoulders, reminiscent of the art of China, the original inspiration whence Japan had worked out that which was now her glorious own. There were landscapes on screen or scroll, serrated crag and cliff with gnarled pines overhanging foaming stream or glittering waterfall; quaint and charming bits of life of old, or still existing but ever disappearing Japan,—dancers in graceful postures, young girls in boats, slender lily hands lying languidly in limpid waters, brown old men, sickle in hand, garnering the rice, each ear of hundreds drawn with veritable botanical accuracy of detail, still retaining the free, swaying grace of nature.

It always cost him an effort to leave this section to enter that devoted to art after Western fashion, which was constantly, year after year, encroaching on, elbowing out of the way that fashioned after the ideals of old Japan. A few years ago there had been only a couple of these modern rooms; now those of the old and the new were almost even; soon the latter would predominate entirely. It seemed such a pity; it irritated him, the relentlessness of this march of progress? Still, it was in its way more instructive than the other, gave concrete, graphic illustration of the ideas and ideals of the young generation, what it was seeking, striving for, more or less uncertainly, but always coming nearer to the goal ever shimmering before it, mastery of the modern, the new culture.

They were improving. Every year the exhibitions showed more certain mastery of technique, better grasp of the spirit of the French art which seemed to be the almost universally accepted school. Kent admitted it to himself grudgingly; every step in advance in this direction meant defeat of the old. What would it all amount to, after all? Even if, with their amazing facility for copying, for imitation, they might produce work which was creditable, which might pass muster even in Europe, as, in fact, some of the things he saw before him might, they would probably never climb out beyond the mediocre, would never attain original achievement. There were some very good portraits, excellent flower pieces, though, of course, this was but natural, considering that this subject was a preËminent favorite with the Japanese schools. Even some of the landscapes were undeniably fine, though, he noted, this was the case especially where some Oriental subject had been chosen, great, carved junks with blood-red sails glaring in the sunlight against a faint blue sky; mountain scenes following largely the composition of kakemono subjects, the delicacy of the latter being replaced by the more massive boldness made possible by the medium of canvas and oils.

He felt that he was ungenerous; still it irritated him that they should be making such headway in their apostacy. Only the nudes gave him an incongruous sense of satisfaction. They were atrocious and the exhibit was cluttered with them. In the old art of Japan, kakemono, color-print and screen, they were virtually unknown, but during the last few years the craze for them had swept over the moderns like an obsession; the very fact that they were utterly new to Japan, the sense that they were unconventional, modern, outrÉ, was undoubtedly the reason. So there they were, scores of them, clumsy masses of female flesh, blatantly brazen, in all sorts of absurd and contorted attitudes—and all these women were not nude, they were naked. The conception of the spirit, the idea of their French masters, the verve, the Élan, they had missed it all. The paintings were bad, and the sculpture, with which the rooms were filled, was worse. Evidently these young enthusiasts had rushed forth fanatically intent to place on canvas something naked; almost anything would do. The clumsy, paunchy forms, shapeless limbs, invariably thick ankles, all seemed to indicate that they had found their models where best they might, among country wenches and servant maids, bringing forth on canvas or from clay mere lumps of flesh, utterly soulless reproductions of female kind.

Did they really wish to convey the idea that Japanese women looked like that? Did they wish, barbarously, to slaughter the conception of the musume, delicate, graceful, beautiful, and to substitute therefor as the ideal mere worship of flesh of the flesh? Damn them, it seemed such stupid, wanton brutality, brutishness even; a grossly sensuous libel on the womanhood of Japan. He glanced at Adachi-san, slender, dainty, flower-like. How was such a grotesque misconception possible?

He felt that she should have resented all this; but she was interested, far more absorbed in the moderns than she had been in the exhibits after the ancient mode. This was the section which young Japan enjoyed. Here the art students thronged, proud of their achievements or those of their fellows, young men with velvet jackets and baggy trousers, flowing ties and broad-brimmed, flapping hats. Their coarse, black hair flowed loosely down to their shoulders; those who could manage it had painstakingly cultivated little Van Dyke beards. Nearly all wore enormous, horn-rimmed spectacles. Here they were in their element, prideful, self-certain in their assurance that they had advanced far beyond the hoi polloi, that they were the leaders. Conspicuously they would form groups, point out, discuss, criticize or go into raptures.

Evidently Adachi-san was quite well known here. Young fellows would bow to her, some would even address a few short remarks. She was plainly enjoying it all; she tried to communicate some of her enthusiasm to Kent, called his attention to work which she thought was well done. She even used some of the technical patter of the students. He wished he had been better informed in art, that he might have placed in convincing form the criticism which craved for expression. He was relieved when they left the exposition and began their return through Uyeno Park.

They found a seat at the edge of an abrupt slope where they had a wide view of the city. "You didn't care for it, Kent-san?" Her voice conveyed her disappointment.

"But I did. I like the truly Japanese things immensely; but that's just it, even though much of the modern stuff is very good—I won't deny it—it seems to me such a pity that Japan should sacrifice the wondrous values of her own art merely to trade them for imitations of that of the West which the other countries can do better than she can; just as Japan in all other things is throwing away her own which suit her,—her dress, her architecture, her manners, only to replace them with shoddy foreign clothes that don't suit Japanese figures; ramshackle hodgepodge buildings after no style at all; and all the rest. And then these student fellows. Can't you see that with most of them it is all pose?"

A couple of the artists passed, bowed courteously. He raised his hat to them.

"But it isn't pose, at least with only a few of them. If you only knew how some of them slave and toil for the ideals they have, you wouldn't talk like that. They may seem absurd to you, or funny even, but I tell you, you would have a different idea of them, if you only knew them."

"Yes, I daresay they must be interesting to know." Throughout the afternoon he had sensed an indefinite resentment that she seemed to be so familiar with them. How did she come to know them so well? It was not jealousy, still, honestly, it might be something fairly close to that. But the whole thing irritated him. He wanted to get away from it, to some other subject. "It is getting quite late, Adachi-san. Let us have dinner somewhere."

But she would not get away from it. "Thank you very much, Kent-san. You're too good to me. But if you really think they may be interesting, why shouldn't we go to one of the places where they eat, right near here. Kent-san, you are the only foreigner whom I know, and you seem to be such, such a reactionary, and I want you to see our side of it. You foreigners ought to be the ones to help us, you know. I want you to, please." The slim, white hand was on his sleeve. She was looking at him earnestly, appealingly almost.

Hang it, the power which these eyes had over him; they could make him do anything, he felt. Of course, in a way, that was what he wanted, to allow himself complete abandon, inertly drifting, dreaming under the spell of that glorious, pervasive beauty, to let himself go under the hypnotism of her charm. But this was something entirely different; the injection of the element of intellect spoiled the whole thing. It was her beauty, not her brain he wished to enjoy, as one might be dreamily soothed by the spell of a picture, unheeding the mechanics to which it owed being. That was her function, beauty. Why should she disrupt the harmony by bringing in thought, this crass, clamorous new thought that seemed like a plague of fever obsessing the new generation? "Our" side of it, she said. He wanted her to be Japan of droning temple bell, slender pagoda, rich, flaunting silks, not the Japan of steam, electricity and new thought. But her earnestness softened him. He would make the best of it. To-day, they had fallen into the wrong setting. He would contrive, next time, one more congruous with the idea which he had in mind.

"All right, Adachi-san, you shall be the guide."

She was radiant. "Kent-san, you are so good. I want you to be pleased, and I feel that you are not pleased, but I want you to know us too, me and my friends, and to like us, if you can."

They passed down the broad stone steps into a vast space of clanging street cars and jostling crowds. Then down a side street, a few blocks. She pointed to a sign, a gaudy female, presumably symbolically representing art or some such abstraction, holding in one hand a palm leaf and in the other a paintbrush. Over it was the inscription, in kata-kana characters, "kafue montomarutoru"; of course, that meant "cafÉ Montmartre."

He knew scores of the queer new cafÉs of Tokyo, but this one was of a type new to him. There were the same rickety tables and chairs, but crowding the walls, leaving scarcely an inch of clear space, were vast oil paintings, tremendous stretches of canvas, all depicting nudes, in every possible position and surrounding, in bath houses and by mountain pools, posing in front of mirrors or just standing upright vacantly, without apparent intention at all; huge figures, clumsy, ill-formed, a mass of light-brown or pink, indelicate flesh pervading and dominating the entire room.

The tables were crowded, the long-haired, bespectacled ones had evidently here a habitat, a homely Parnassus, where they might worship that which they conceived to be art, amidst an atmosphere of beer, bad cooking and the eternal nudes. They found seats at a table with some of them, who smiled and made room with great politeness.

It was an odd mess. Still, since he was definitely in for it, he might as well do his best to draw from the incident whatever he might. But he could not get over the incongruity of it, Adachi-san, dainty, modest, with only an inch or two of clear ivory-tint below the throat showing under the embroidered eri neckband, surrounded by this mob-like throng of utter nakedness.

"And do you really like all that?" He swept his hand disparagingly towards the walls.

"Ssst," she placed her hand warningly on her lips. "Please don't talk so loud, Kent-san. He made them, the proprietor over there. He runs the restaurant for a living, but he paints, too, these things."

Were they all going crazy; even second-class restaurateurs snatching moments between steaks and chops to worship fanatically at the new shrines? He was about to speak, to express to her his wonder at these ever more astounding revelations, when he became aware that some one had come up to them, a Japanese of about thirty, less conspicuously bohemian than the others, still apparently one of the artist tribe. He bowed with quiet dignity to Kent. "I beg your pardon, but I couldn't help overhearing, and I should like very much to know what you think." He turned to the girl. "Please, Adachi-san, won't you introduce me to your friend."

She was plainly pleased as she made the introductions. Kent was a friend, she blushed a little. The newcomer was Sugawa, "a great artist," she added, "one of our best."

Sugawa smiled to Kent. "Women exaggerate so," he remarked in perfect English. Then he fell back to Japanese, evidently for the benefit of the girl. "I saw you at the exhibition this afternoon, and now again here, and I am sure that you don't like what we do. You are an American, are you not? I thought so. And you know we Japanese like Americans for their frankness, the American frankness. I wish you would tell me just what you think about it, and, if you care, I'll tell you just what we think, what we are trying to do."

"The American frankness." That was the usual prelude, the favorite gambit for opening a conversation in which Japan drew out skillfully the thoughts and views of America, but only so seldom gave like return, remaining unrevealed, unknown, behind that curiously baffling wall of national reticence. His courtesy had been perfect, disarming; still what business had he to come breaking in upon them like that! "American frankness." He probably wouldn't like it when he received it, but since that was what he asked for, he should have it, in full measure.

"In the first place, I must tell you that I am no artist and have but small knowledge of such matters, but I can tell you how I feel, how probably most of us foreigners feel when we see you lightly abandoning the immeasurably fine heritage from your forefathers to make mediocre offerings to foreign idols." He swept on, expressed his feelings just as he would have spoken to Kittrick or Karsten; it became almost a tirade. He began referring to pictures he had seen that afternoon, things he particularly remembered; but as he went on picking into bits, relentlessly, this and that painting, the clumsy clay images, the other's face showed no resentment, expressed instead absorbed, intelligent attention. Kent felt that he had gone a little too far and wished to tone it down a little.

"Even if you, some of you, at least, have done surprisingly well, especially considering the shortness of time, what particular good will it do? Even if in time you should bring forth a Gauguin or a Matisse, the others are doing all that; you will have but added to the cumulative results; whereas in your own field you are unique, undisputed masters of an art that is valuable and fine, that will become lost if you fellows don't follow it up. I hope that I have not offended you, but it seems such a pity."

The other smiled. "No, of course I'm not offended. I asked for frankness and got what I asked for. And, you know, it is not new to me, this feeling of you foreigners that we should continue along the old line. That's what my teachers were telling me, in America and in Paris. That's what you Westerners always want, in art, in architecture, in dress, customs, life, to have us remain the quaint, exotic, strange country. You are like the people who think it a pity that a pretty kitten must grow up to be a cat, and who would like to have a child remain always a child. On one hand you praise the adaptability with which we have acquired your civilization, and on the other you hate to see the old, quaint Japan go—to see it change so as to become but one more of the many countries of the earth which are so much alike. You feel that the world is becoming too much the same all over, that London, and New York, and Paris, and now Tokyo will be all the same, will afford no new, strange sights and sensations; that Japan is being lost as a charming playground for you. But what about us? In the first place, we wanted to remain as we were, but the foreigner forced us to become one with him. No," he smiled, "I don't resent it. I am glad it happened, but the fact remains. You praise us for adopting your civilization, and still that doesn't mean only building steamships, and railroads and all that. That's the least part of it. That's superficial. What really counts is our emancipation from feudalism, from the rule of the few masters, attaining expression of the individuality, and that's the real Western civilization which Japan, the Japanese people, has just begun to grasp. Then why shouldn't we follow our own wishes, each his own, each man, for instance, painting as he pleases, old style, modern style, after Hokusai or after Gauguin. You say that we are not producing the art of our forefathers, but you don't see Europe producing any Titians or Tintorettos. Of course, so far we are only imitating, we are learning, copying, but why shouldn't we some day do as well as you do, maybe even better? Now we have joined in the march of progress of common civilization. We can't go backwards, we can't remain stationary. We must go on. Art is only one phase of the whole thing, but——"

But he was interrupted by a jangling of bells, clamor of voices.

"Gogai!" the hoarse shout came in from the street. "Gogai!"

An extra. They were rushing to the windows, the door. "Hey, come here, in here."

A little old man ran in, breathless, amid a jingle from a bunch of small bells clustered from his belt. Under his arm he held a bundle of small printed sheets, the gogai, extras, great news of some kind. They all crowded around him, tore the papers from him as he gathered in their coppers.

Tokyo had been in a fever of excitement for days. The discovery had been made that a score of carloads of the arms left in the care of the Japanese army when the Czecho-Slovak troops retired from Siberia, had disappeared. At the same time Chang Tse-lin, the Manchurian war-lord, had received, from some mysterious source, a large amount of war supplies. The newspapers almost unanimously accused the militarists, the General Staff, of having engineered the transfer, in spite of Japan's agreement with the other Powers that none of them should supply the warring factions in China with arms. Dual diplomacy, the General Staff calmly overriding, for its own sinister purposes, the international pledges made by the Foreign Office. The accusation which the Japanese press so resented when made by foreigners was shouted by all the papers. And the people took it up. Now had finally come the time when the issue had been fairly made, when the yoke of the militarists must be overthrown by the rest of the Cabinet. Breathlessly the nation watched for the struggle.—But the General Staff haughtily denied the charge. They knew nothing of it all. A major in the army "confessed" that he was responsible; he had sold the arms to a Russian faction with which he sympathized. It was all his own, personal doings. He took all the responsibility. His wife committed suicide; she would not face the disgrace. The nation cried out. She was one more innocent victim of the juggernaut of the General Staff. Her husband was another, a scapegoat, a martyr. Of course, no one believed his story, a palpable invention to save the skins of his superiors. Now, what would the Premier, what would the Foreign Office do?

The gogai brought the answer. The Premier issued a statement, setting forth in tedious detail the opera bouffe proceedings of the court-martial. He confirmed the whole thing.

"The cowards!"

They did not stamp their feet, or bang fists on tables; repression was too ingrained. But as they read through the sheets, calling the attention of one another to this or that paragraph, disappointed, disgusted, sickened, hissing sharp staccato syllables between clenched teeth, it was as if the atmosphere had become charged electrically with waves of resentment, repressed hate, palpable almost as heat waves, sinister, ominous. The militarists had won again, as usual; but what of it? They had been brought a step nearer the eventual, inevitable debacle. It might seem on the face of it Oriental patience, passivity, but one could feel the tenseness of cumulative, restrained sense of outrage, injury. It was the constantly mounting head of steam in the boiler again.

But Kent had no time to study effects. He looked at his watch; only a little after nine. He would have time to cable. "Here, quick, call a taxi. Bring the bill, hayaku. Adachi-san, come along, please. I've got to send this thing right away."

A small closed car arrived. They climbed in. Immediately Kent set himself to composing a draft for his message. Sitting thus together, her warm, lithe body close to his, he sensed unconsciously the pleasure of her presence, but his mind was intent on his work, confining in the laconic form of a cable message the gist of the event. He read it over. Hang it, he should have liked to have seen the official communique which the Foreign Office must have sent out, but there was no time. He must take his chance on the gogai.

"Kent-san," she was leaning closer to him. "And now you are going to send that by the cable over to America. When will the papers there print it?"

"To-morrow the news will be all over the United States, all over the world."

"It is wonderful. How interesting your work must be. What have you written?"

He read it to her, pleased, with a feeling that her interest was drawing them together, that in some way, as yet undefinable, they were being brought into that intimacy which he craved.

She listened intently, a tiny furrow between the black crescent brows, thinking. "Kent-san," she said suddenly, as if she had arrived at a decision after careful deliberation. "You can add that the Premier does not believe the explanation of the General Staff; that he has told them so. It isn't fear of the fall of the Cabinet only that keeps him from making deeper investigation. The secret of it all is a question of the old clans, the Satsuma and the Choshu. The Premier is Satsuma, General Matsu is Choshu. The General threatened that if he were not backed up he would make it a clan fight, Choshu against Satsuma, and he would, too. They stop at nothing, these militarists. And Viscount Kikuchi had to straighten it out, to show them that if the governing classes fought among themselves at this time, it would give the people, the masses, he calls them, a chance. These old rulers know they must stick together, the old, the iron-hard men, the feudalists, against the people, against young Japan. Oh, it's so bitter, Kent-san, not only class against class, but generation against generation, even among the aristocracy; father against son, even. Some time you should talk to young Kikuchi, if he'll agree to talk to you about it. That, Kent-san, that's the real story."

In an indefinite way he had suspected that something like that was the case. That enmity existed among the various departments of the Government was an open secret, but this version, the clan fight, gave a picturesque, human-interest angle to the story that he rather liked.

"Yes, that's interesting; but you know I can't send stuff like that unless I'm sure it's correct. How do you know? I must know that the source is reliable."

The car stopped; they had reached the post-office. He jumped out; then he leaned forward into the car. "Adachi-san, how can I know that it is true?"

She stooped towards him. He was looking straight into these lustrous eyes, brilliant, close. "I am telling you, Kent-san."

There was no time for debate; the cable office would close in a few minutes. As he copied his message on to the printed blank, his thoughts were racing, occupied with the girl's story. Should he take a chance? He hesitated for a moment. "Persons in position to know"—his pencil framed the words half mechanically. He felt an odd conviction that she was right. The clerk reached over for the message; he was in a hurry to get his work done and get away. Well, let it go.

He found her standing in the street beside the car. "Step in, Adachi-san, I'll take you home."

"No, there is no need for the car now. I shall walk."

Again that peculiar prejudice against what she ingenuously deemed the luxuries of the privileged classes. What a potpourri of quaint ideas stirred in that brain behind those delicately curved brows, those wonderful eyes, and yet she appeared extraneously so like all those Japanese girls whom one saw casually, everywhere, thinking idly that they harbored only thoughts of flower arrangement, tea ceremonial, or the ordinary dreams and aspirations of girlhood. She had given him but casual glimpses at her mind, evanescent, baffling flickers, stimulating curiosity, tempting him to learn, to find out, to intimacy. So far the day had given no opportunity for confidential talk; mischievous mischance seemed to have been ever bent, vexatiously, on intervening. Now the walk might afford better chance.

She lived near Kanda-bashi, she said. They passed along the crowded streets, crossed the Ginza and turned down the broad street along the palace moat. Here there was no one. He took her hand, and, hand-in-hand, child-like, as do young Japanese couples, they walked on. But she was in no mood for personal talk. The moon; see how the light refracted on the green-oxidized copper roofs of the palace buildings, and the black reflections of the gnarled pines in the silvery water! She was thoughtful, a little serious. He walked on with her, wholly happy at the sense of her nearness, the softness of the small hand in his, languorously content.

At the Kanda bridge she stopped. "Here I leave you. I live over there." She indicated a dark mass of houses on the other side of the bridge. "And thank you, Kent-san, you have been so good to me."

But he held on to her hand. "But, Adachi-san, first you must tell me when I may see you again. I must see you, often, like this."

She smiled a little. "Why?"

"Of course. We shall be friends, good friends, shan't we?"

"But I am always so busy, really. I have so little time."

"Of course, you have time. Say Wednesday." She shook her head. "Well, then, Saturday afternoon; then I know you have time. I shall wait for you in Hibiya, at the fountain by the wistaria arbor, at noon, please."

But again she shook her head. He clung to her hand, insisting. Suddenly she pulled it free, laughed. "All right then, next Saturday." She moved away a few steps, then abruptly, impulsively, she plucked from her hair a rose, held it over to him. "For you, Kent-san. Good-night, o-yasumi nasai."

He stood holding the flower, watching her as she moved swiftly over the bridge and disappeared in a narrow lane between the dark buildings. He found a rickshaw. Despite subconscious realization that the day had, after all, been drab, commonplace, disappointing, he felt in an exalted mood. The trotting figure of the rickshaw coolie faded from his consciousness; it was as if he were alone, with his thoughts, dreams. What a wonderfully complicated little beauty she was, entirely different from any girl he had known, had ever imagined; mysterious with her passionate devotion to the new things, art, the political flux and ferment, her peculiarly insistent abhorrence at the luxuries of the rich, and then, finally, that inconsistent flash of coquetry. Now he must carry on, get the explanation of all this, learn her thoughts, attain intimacy. She piqued him with her elusiveness, but it added to his zest. But what did he wish, after all? He enjoyed the sense of being surrounded, enveloped in her beauty; yet he was not in love with her—no, he was not—there was no desire of conquest, to embrace her, to clasp her in his arms in possession. And still he had realized distinct enjoyment at holding her hand. It was intensely interesting, her evident acquaintance with the manipulation of the hidden strings which actuated the secret workings of the government behind the scenes. Yes, that also caused attraction; yet he had been drawn to her, irresistibly, with the direct certainty which compels steel to a magnet, even before he had heard a word from her, by the sheer compulsion of her beauty. Hang it, it was all very puzzling, this not being able to define what was really stirring within one's own mind. Still, he was no psychoanalyst. He gave it up. He would let the thing take its course, let fate work it out according to its own inscrutable arrangement.

He held the rose to his face; yes, he was certain; of all the incongruous, clashing incidents of the day, this was the one he liked best.