The bottle the Japanese left at his elbow was becoming Phil's constant comforter. Alone with his thoughts, he fled to it as the hashish eater to his drug, because it banished his dread and bolstered the courage that he longed for. To-night, as he sat with the intoxication creeping like dull fire in his blood, he was thinking of Haru, with her soft smooth skin, her perfect neck, her lithe, graceful limbs, her eyes that held caught laughter like moss in amber.
His thought broke off. He had heard a sound outside. It seemed to be a light tapping on the grill of the outer door. Could it be Bersonin? Had anything gone wrong? He went hastily into the anteroom and opened the grill.
For an instant he stared unbelievingly at the figure standing there, the gay kimono, the rouged cheeks, the sparkling eyes. He took a step forward.
"Haru! Is it really you, little girl?" he cried.
She laughed—a high, clear, flute-like note. "Such an astonish!" she said. "You not know my mus' come ... after ... after those kiss? Can I not to come in, Phil-lip?"
With a laugh that echoed her own—but one of ringing triumph—he caught her hand, drew her into the lighted room and closed the shoji. His look flamed over her.
"I couldn't believe my eyes!" he cried. "I don't half believe them yet! Why, your hands are as cold as ice. We'll have a drink, eh!"
He went into an outer room, came back with a bottle of champagne and knocked off its neck against the mantel.
"Yes, yes!" she said. "My mus' drink—so to be gay, Phil-lip!" She drank the bubbling liquor at a draft. "What are the use of to be good? Né?"
"You're right, little girl! The pious people are the dull ones!" He came to her unsteadily—he had noticed the reversed obi. "So you'll train with me, eh? Well, we'll show them a trick or two! How would you like to have plenty of money, Haru—as much as you can count on a soroban? Would you think a lot more of me if I got it for you?"