“At the English—at Europe.”
“Perhaps it’s impudence, perhaps not, anyhow—I distrust them—”
“Dick,” said his companion, “look! It’s getting dusk: let’s go and look for George and your ‘adoptive daughter.’ Mercy! What’s that!”
A deep hum filled the air; it seemed to come at first from the statue of Koma-ino—a soul-disturbing hum that deepened and swelled and then leapt, leapt into a deafening roar that rushed over Nagasaki, to die on the distant sea.
Jane clung to her companion like a child, hugged him as a child might hug a nurse; her straw hat was pushed sideways, and he found his face buried in the masses of her perfumed hair. His arm had slipped round her waist, her arm was over his shoulder, and her fingers pressing his neck; for a moment he felt as if he were absorbing her being—drinking her.
Then the sound died away.
“What was it?” gasped she, pushing away from him and gazing at him with a white, drawn face. “Why, you seem half dazed; you were more frightened than I. Dick, what was it?”
“I’m all right,” said Leslie, in the voice of a man waking from the effect of an opiate. “I wasn’t frightened. It was only the big gong of the monastery; I’ve heard it lots of times.”
“Then why couldn’t you have told me?” cried Jane, flying from fright to fury. “Think what it must have looked like, you hugging me like that.” She sprang to her feet. “You bring me here and tell me ghost stories, and frighten me to death with gongs and things, and then—I believe you’re half a Japanese already, you’ve grown so horrid.”