"Friends would be more troublesome than my enemies," he said grimly, "who, at least, never ask me where I don't want to go."
She looked at him wonderingly. She had never met any one in the least like him. His features were refined and unquestionably aristocratic but his whole expression was quiveringly sensitive, resentfully shy. It was the expression, she thought, of one whom a look might cut like a whiplash, a word sting like a searing acid.
"The only foreigners I know are those who write me letters: malicious busybodies, people who want subscriptions to all sorts of shams, or invite me to join respectable, humbug societies, or write merely to gratify a low curiosity. As for friends, I have none."
"Surely, I saw you with one this morning," she said, with a smile.
"Ah," he said, his look changing swiftly; "I don't count Ishikichi. Children understand me."
"And me," she said. "I made friends with Ishikichi this morning. He was catching crickets in the garden. I am visiting the American Embassy," she added.
"The garden there has been a famous playground for the child, no doubt," he returned. "His boon companion lived just opposite the compound."
"The little Toru, who was run over?"
"Yes. Ishikichi has been inconsolable. To-day, however, he has ceased to sorrow. The owner of the carriage has sent six hundred yen to the father, who is now able to pay his debts and enlarge his business. The tablet on the Buddha-shelf that bears the little boy's death-name will be henceforth the dearest possession of the family. To Ishikichi he is a glorious hero whose passing it would be a crime to grieve." He broke off, with the odd, timid gesture she had seen before. "But you came to see the garden," he said. "If you like, I will show it to you."
Without waiting for her answer, he led the way, moving quickly and agilely. The softness of his tread in the cloth tabi seemed almost feminine. A little farther on he turned abruptly: