“Then up and down the room, in the long, trailing robe of Princess Sado-ko, walked, peacock-like, the maiden Masago.”
“Masago,” repeated the other, softly. “That is well.” She raised a flushing face. “I am like a bird set free, Masago. My very voice is sore to sing.”
Masago threw herself upon the floor beside her.
“That is how I feel, also,” she said.
They smiled into each other’s faces, then drew closer together, their sympathy for each other growing.
“Here is some homely counsel,” said Masago. “Confide small matters to my mother, and lead her on to gossip much with you. She will tell you everything there is to know. She is so simple—so foolish. A little wit upon your part will quickly disarm any suspicion she might have. But be not free in speech with Yamada Kwacho, your new father. A cold and constrained space has always been between us. Do not let the children disturb you with their prattle, and oh, also, pray you show some pride to certain neighbors, for none in all the town have had the same up-bringing as Masago.”
“And is that all,—these simple facts that I must heed to be Masago?”
“All. It is a dull and simple life.”
“And you. Pray trust not the ladies of my suite. They do most heartily detest the Princess Sado-ko, who is given to seclusion, which has often deprived them of much gay pleasures of the new court.”