But this was all. For the rest he had perforce been content to wait. Thus matters had stood when they parted a few months ago. He recalled the day he had sailed for Suez. Looking back across the widening water, he had conceived then no possibility of ultimate failure. "How beautiful she is!" he had said to himself. "She will marry me. She does not love me, but she cares for no other man. She will marry me in Japan." There had been nobody else then!
As he peered out into the glooming dusk all kinds of thoughts raced through his mind. Who was the man? Was this the resurrection of an old "affair" that he had never guessed? No, when he left her, Barbara had been fancy free! It was either a "steamer acquaintance," or one come to quick fruition on a romantic soil. He took out a cigar-case and struck a match with shaking fingers. Had it even come to clandestine rendezvous? She had gone one way, the man another! A whirl of rage seized him: the slender metal snapped short off in the fierce wrench of his fingers. He thrust the broken case into his pocket with a muttered curse that sat strangely on his fastidious tongue.
Gradually, out of the wrack emerged his dominant impulse, caution. He had many things to learn; he must find out how the land lay. He must move slowly, reëstablish the old, easy, informal footing. Above all he must lay himself open to no chance of a definite refusal. A plan began to take shape. His telegram had told her he would arrive in Tokyo next day. Meanwhile he would find out what Phil knew.
He left the train at Yokohama under cover of the crowd. In a half-hour he was aboard his yacht. Two hours later he sat down to order his dinner on the terrace of the hotel, cool, unruffled, immaculately groomed. The place was brightly barred with the light from the tall dining-room windows, and the small, round tables glowed with andons whose candle-light shone on men's conventional black-and-white, and women's fluttering gowns. There was no wind—only the long, slow breath of the bay that seemed sluggish with the scents of the tropical evening. A hundred yards from the hotel front great floating wharves had been built out into the water. They were gaily trimmed with bunting and electric lights in geometrical designs. A series of arches flanked them, and these were covered with twigs of ground pine. Ware had guessed these decorations were for the European Squadron of Dreadnaughts, of whose arrival to-day's newspapers had been full.
As he looked over the menu, a man sitting near-by rose and came to him with outstretched hand. He was Commander DeKay, a naval attaché whom Ware had known in Europe. They had met again, a few days since, at Kyoto. He hospitably insisted on the other's joining his own party of five.
Ware was not gregarious, and to-night was in a sullen mood. But, with his habitual policy, he thrust this beneath the surface and in another moment was bowing to the introductions: Baroness Stroloff, her sister, a chic young matron whose natural habitat seemed to be Paris; the ubiquitous and popular Count Voynich, and a statuesque American girl, whose name Ware recognized as that of a clever painter of Japanese children. He looked well in evening dress, and his dark beard, thick curling pompadour and handsome eyes added a something of distinction to a well-set figure.
"So you have just arrived, Mr. Ware?" the Baroness said. "I hope you're not one of those terrible two-days-in-Japan tourists who spoil all our prices for us."
"I expect to stay a month or more," he said. "And as for prices, I shall put up as good a battle as I can."
"You know," said the artist, with an air of imparting confidential information, "everybody is scheduled in Tokyo. If you belong to an Embassy you have to pay just so much more for everything. In the Embassies, 'number-one-man' pays more than 'number-two-man,' and so on down. You and I are lucky, Mr. Ware. We are not on the list, and can fight it out on its merits."
"Belonging to the rankless file has its advantages in Japan, then."