“But yes.” They moved toward the hall and Barclay dropped behind for a second. “My wife—” Takasaki turned about and waited for Barclay to catch up with them. “She will be at the next lesson. When you come to Nippon again, Mr. Barclay, do not only look at curios.”
Ethel darted a look at the two men—her quick ear had caught a hint of menace in Takasaki’s monotonous voice, but his expression was devoid of meaning. Barclay’s cheery smile reassured her.
“I’ll follow your advice, Mr. Takasaki,” replied Barclay, passing out of the front door held open by the attentive servant. “But I hardly expect to visit Japan again. Good morning,” and the door closed behind him.
Barclay caught up to Ethel and suited his step to hers. “We have plenty of time,” he coaxed. “Let’s go over to the Corcoran Gallery. There is an exhibition of Japanese paintings which I particularly want you to see.”
But Ethel shook her head. “Don’t tempt me to be idle,” she said. “I have letters to write for Cousin Jane. You”—with a kindly glance for his evident disappointment—“can come with me if you wish?”
“If I wish!” he echoed with such emphasis that both laughed involuntarily. Before he could say more Ethel sprang on board an up-town electric car, and to his chagrin he had no opportunity in the crowded street car to exchange further words with her. On reaching the Ogden residence Ethel went at once to Walter Ogden’s den on the second floor.
“Claiming the privilege of cousinship, I am coming in, too,” announced Barclay from the doorway. “I feel sure I can help you get rid of those letters”—pointing to several lying on a desk.
“Come in,” replied Ethel, seating herself and sorting writing paper and pens. “But, oh, please don’t talk.”
Barclay did not need the injunction—to sit and look at Ethel had become a matter of habit and happiness with him, and he watched her deft fingers cover page after page with legible but stylish writing with never flagging interest, and the intensity of his regard brought an added light to her eyes.
It was the first time Barclay had been in the large costly furnished room which, opening out of Walter Ogden’s bedroom, he had taken for an upstairs sitting room, and which Mrs. Ogden had promptly called the den. Ethel had been installed there soon after her arrival, and her art metal typewriting desk, which she had brought with her as well as her Underwood typewriter, had been placed midway between the hall door and the entrance to Ogden’s bedroom. She had been somewhat upset over being so far from the light, but Ogden had given her a powerful electric droplight and that had helped her materially. Ogden’s own desk, a massive affair, occupied the space between the two windows, while Mrs. Ogden’s lounge, a bookcase filled with light literature, a highboy, several tables, and numerous upholstered chairs and a small fireplace took up most of the space in the room.