"Not yet," declared the maid again.
"Do you suppose his love for me—you said it was love, I did not!—is greater than his love for the spirit of his father?"
"Yes," answered the maid.
"Oh, little beast!" cried her mistress, embracing her. "Benten, but I am happy!"
She chattered on:—
"Also have you noticed how beautiful he is? He has hair like the pictures of the gods—though he is a shaven samurai. And those songs he sings he makes himself. I am going to learn a thousand musical instruments so that I may play them all. I wish I could sing! And, Isonna, we never laughed—really—until he came, did we? Always that thing hung over us. But he is not to know it. And we may forget it! And, Isonna, have you noticed that exquisite habit he has of touching me, here, here, here?"
She laughed and made the serving-girl the illustrant of this aberration of the soldier.
"That he does when he wants me to look at something—often only himself. Or when I am not attending to his words. I used to shudder and go away from it—it was so strange—no one else ever did it. But I now think it very foolish to start and be frightened by such small things."
"I have observed you go toward it!" droned the maid.
"That is a vile lie!" cried Hoshiko. "Say, do you know what causes that?"