She let her hand lie in his. He drew her closer so her slim body rested lightly against his, and as he did it he wondered, why she was so passive, offering no resistance, not even making a show of doing so? Was it because it was all in her day's work, an easy surrender to careless handling, or mauling by clumsy, lustful paws of carousing guests? It took the glamor out of the thing, stripped the situation instantly of its air of light, ephemeral charm. How far did they go, these girls; at least, how far did this one go? He would soon find out. He threw both arms about her and drew her close into his clasp; but now she resisted, set both hands against his face. He was surprised at the strength of these slender arms. There could be no doubt of the genuineness of her resistance. She fought desperately to get away. He released her. She looked at him gravely, without anger, but just a bit disdainfully. "But you mustn't do that, behave just like a rough guest. I thought you were quiet. You must promise not to do that again. The hand, yes, and, if you promise, I will sit quite near you, yes; but no more."
He felt quite ashamed; still his curiosity had the better of him. Was that the usual procedure, the favors usually granted the guests? He asked her, bluntly.
"Oh, no." She placed her hand on his arm, looked up at him seriously, intently. "The hand, it doesn't matter. But I don't sit like that, so close, with others. You, you were a friend."
She seemed so ingenuous, the air of innocence was quaint, irresistible. He would have sworn that she told the truth—but what about the police commissioner? He felt that it was churlish, an unworthy thing; still he could not help asking: "But your police friend?"
She swept her hand outwards impatiently, as would she waft away something noxious, unpleasant. "So you've heard. But what of it. Shikataganai, it can't be helped. Why should you care; he has bought me, he gives me many fine things; but he is only an o-kyaku-san, after all—and you are a friend, so why should you care?"
She noted the surprise on his face, his amazement at this astonishing reasoning. "But don't you understand, one doesn't care for the man who is just a guest; it is a matter of business, but one doesn't love the o-kyaku-san, no matter what he gives, money, presents. The man who pays nothing, the friend, he's the one—the one whom one cares for. But, of course, you are a foreigner; you may know the hearts of your own women, but you don't know the hearts of geisha."
"No, how can I? Tell me. Teach me. Come over here again. I shall be very quiet."
"Then promise." She held her hand out to him, the little finger curved into a diminutive hook, took his hand and curved his finger in the same fashion, linked it into her own. "That's the way we promise. Now, don't forget."
She gave him her hand naïvely and snuggled close to him. "You have been very rough, but I know that you don't know about Japanese custom. So now I shall tell you what to do to make the geisha like you. You know when you act as you did just now, we don't like you. You must be kind, gentle. We don't like rough men, or restless ones, and the ones who laugh loudly at everything, or the ones who are over-sweet on first acquaintance. And we don't like the ones who brag about themselves and about their money, or who throw it about to show off, or the ones who are too dandified, or who chatter too much. But we like the man who is quiet, not too silent, but who talks pleasantly, and who doesn't boast, and who doesn't brag about experience with geisha. If you want a geisha to like you, don't be stingy, but don't spend over-much. Be cheerful and be kind. That's why I like the foreigners in the cinema. And now I have taught you a lot, and you are very wise, and," she laughed up into his face, "next time you meet a geisha you know just how to win her."