“Mayhap,” said M’Gourley, who did not know the facts of the case, or perhaps he would not have taken so cheerful a view of O Toku San’s lover’s future state. “Mayhap.” He looked down at her little face. Her eyes were dry, but a tear was still wet on her cheek. He took out his handkerchief and dried it.
Campanula smiled faintly, pressed her cheek ever so slightly against his arm as if in thanks, and drew away from him, resuming her position on the little rug.
M’Gourley took out his pipe, lit it, and began to smoke.
“Now,” said he, “just put on those sandal shoes of yours again, for I am going to take you out with me.”
“Where?” asked Campanula.
“No matter where,” replied Mac, rising from the veranda. “A nice place where you and I’ll go—you and I together, as we did along the Nikko road, only not on my shoulder. Na, na! you’re ower big for that. Do you remember the sugar-candy dragon?”
“Ah! the Hon. Dragon!” replied she in the vernacular, as she bent to pass the sandal-strap past the great toe of her white tabi. “He is upstairs with—other things, but the Hon. Dragon is very old now.”
Then she took her umbrella and opened it, and M’Gourley and she passed down the path to the gate.
He held the gate open for her, and she passed through with a murmured word of thanks, and then she led the way down hill under the perfumed beauty of the lilac boughs.
About half-way down, Campanula stepped aside as if to let some one pass. M’Gourley, close on her heels, and in a reverie, did the same thing unconsciously. If someone had passed, that someone must have effaced himself amidst the lilac trees on the left of the path.