At last Craven laid it down carefully, and gathering up the slender clasped hands, kissed them silently. The mute homage was more to her than words. The colour rushed to her cheeks and her eyes devoured his face almost hungrily.
“You like it?” she whispered wistfully.
“Like it?” he echoed, “Gad! little girl, it's wonderful. It's more than a fir tree—it's power, tenacity, independence. I know that all your work is symbolical to you. What does the tree mean—Japan?”
She turned her head away, the flush deepening in her cheeks, her fingers gripping his.
“It means—more to me than Japan,” she murmured. “More to me than life—it means—you,” she added almost inaudibly.
He swept her up into his arms and carrying her out on to the verandah, dropped into a big cane chair that was a concession to his western limbs.
“You make a god of me, O Hara San,” he said huskily.
“You are my god,” she answered simply, and as he expostulated she laid her soft palm over his mouth and nestled closer into his arms.
“I talk now,” she said quaintly. “I have much to tell.”
But the promised news did not seem forthcoming for she grew silent again, lying quietly content, rubbing her head caressingly from time to time against his arm and twisting his watch-chain round her tiny fingers.