She shrugged her thin, bared shoulders.
“Frankly, I confess of the two evils, Aoi or Fuji, I do not know which is the worse.”
Junzo frowned gloomily through the windows into the brightly lighted room, now quickly filling. A trumpet blast, full and clear, resounded somewhere in the palace.
“Who enters now?” asked Junzo.
“The noble Prince Komatzu. Note the change upon his face, artist. Love prints her fingers on one’s countenance as clearly as can be.”
“And who comes now?”
“Put close your face against the barbarian pane. You see quite plainly?”
“Quite so.”
“Well, look your full, Sir Artist. It is the Princess Sado-ko who comes.”
He saw a glittering, spangled gown, low of neck and long of train. So long, indeed, it was that she who wore it tripped within it, and often lifted it in awkward style. Little high-heeled French slippers were upon the feet. The artist’s eyes turned from surveying her strange, gorgeous gown, to her face, and there for a long, horror-stricken moment they remained.