He protested. He would use his knowledge only to win her; but she shook her head. No, it was impossible. And now it was late. She must go. She rose, bowed ceremoniously. He grasped her hand. Just a moment; would she not meet him again? She could not tell; yes, she often came up here for tsuki-mi. She bowed again and disappeared down the stairway into the house.
After that he met her often, on the roof. As they became intimate, she told him that she would come whenever she was not engaged; but she was popular and he was often disappointed. It added to the fascination of the meetings, the constant uncertainty, enhanced the pleasure of being with her, listening to her grave, childish wisdom. He felt that he might easily come to care for her, that she was insinuating herself into his affection; that she might become the woman whom he was awaiting to come from somewhere, into his life. But while their friendship grew, and she talked more freely, confidently, and he felt himself gaining an intimate insight into this quaint, delicate little geisha soul, she maintained punctiliously the barrier of the first evening. Carefully, with the most subtle caution, he endeavored to gain a little more, to draw her closer, but she was ever alert, baffled him quietly.
Usually their talk was gay, and especially when her intuition, marvelously accurate, warned her of his restlessness, she held it so. But one evening when the night was dark, with only a few faint stars futilely scattered in the murk, he fancied that she was troubled. He could not see her face, but as he sat near her he could notice her bosom heave uneasily and sensed a trembling, nervous tension of her body. But she would tell him nothing; said little, pressed close to him, silently oppressed by her thoughts. What could be going on in that childishly troubled little geisha mind, behind that clear white forehead with its finely curved half-moon brows? He placed both arms about her cautiously, but she did not resist. The poor, dear, little girl! He wanted to hold her, help her, felt the instinct of protection, affection. "O-Toshi-san, tell me what it is. I shall help you. Can't you trust me a little, dearest? Can't you care for me a little?"
She straightened in his arms, drew her head back, black eyes gazing deeply into his. Then, suddenly, she threw both arms about him, clung to him convulsively, gaspingly, pressing her soft cheek against his. He moved a little so he faced her. "Kiss me, O-Toshi-san." She drew back her head a little, startled. "Kiss me, in the foreign way. You are a foreigner's, now." He bent over to her, pressed his lips against her soft mouth. But it was only a faint response. "I must teach you to kiss, dear. Come." Again he kissed her, again and again, and gradually she responded, hot lips clung to his, as she trembled, clinging in his arms.
"I left behind a flower yet in bud; it weighs on my mind that it may blow without me."
A drunken guest was reeling from a waiting-house down the alley. She drew herself away. "It is late. I must go." She raised herself on her toes, framed his face between her hands, kissed him. "Good-by, Kent-san. Good-by."
She was gone.
So it had come at last. The woman had come into his life. A geisha. Now what would follow? What would be the arrangements? Could he take her from the geisha house? Where? The thought of the o-kyaku-san became suddenly intolerable. But just how should he proceed? Confound his ignorance about such matters. He would ask Karsten for advice, but first he wanted to see her again, to ask her what she wished to do. Probably he would see her in her window, in the morning. Anyway, he did not wish to reason, to fetter his thoughts with commonplace details. That could be done later. His mind reverted to the events of the hours just past, the amazingly unexpected good fortune, delight, which had come to him like a shooting star out of the dark. He let the images of recollection surge over him, envelop him. Thank God, life would have some meaning, some of the high light of love venture to brighten the dimness of dull routine existence.
He barely noticed, as he entered the office building the next morning, a couple of hand-carts, piled high with boxes and bundles, moving from the alley. He ran up the stairs, glanced through the window. The shoji were open, but there was no sign of her. He seated himself at his desk to wait, noticed an envelope, a quaint flower-embossed thing, and opened it curiously. The missive was from Toshi-san, written in kata-kana, the easy phonetic script which she knew he understood.
Tame wo omoute