“Assuredly, I will stay,” assented the gruff and honest Kwacho.
“And I.”
“And I.”
Thus from all the guests.
They sat late into the afternoon, beguiled by saké, tea, and the dreamy day. The mellow light of the sun was softly dulled by the white haze which crept up to the sky from out the river. The white mist deepened, turning softly gray, then darkened imperceptibly. A breeze sprang up from the west, sweeping with briskness through the opened story of the Kamura house.
Yamada Kwacho contracted his brows, as he looked uneasily at the darkened sky. As though he read his thoughts, the patient voice of his host said simply:—
“It is but the hour of four.”
“Yet see how strangely, weirdly dark,” said a young cousin, pointing out toward the river. “There seems a cloud upon the Hayama, Cousin Kamura.”
“A habit of this country hereabouts,” said Kwacho, answering for his host. “Sometimes the mists arise while it is yet noon, and, creeping across the skies, darken and thicken in a fog so dense that even a tailless cat might lose its way.”
The young Kamura cousin shuddered, and looked with apprehension at the ever clouding sky.