His voice was low and nervous. He seemed to hesitate.
“Cousin, have you forgotten the artist-man?”
“The artist-man!” she gave a little cry, then quickly covered up her lips with her fingers.
“You start! Kamura Junzo his name was. Once I thought you favored him. So thought all the members of the court. I could not close my ears against the romance, though I severely disapproved the slander, and named it such; for I deemed your condescension to the man the idle fancy of a princess noted for her oddities and caprices. But lately, the mere thought of him causes my brain to burn with raging and unworthy jealousy.”
She rested one small hand against the railing of her balcony, then slowly drew up her slender figure.
“The artist is no more to me,” she said, “than any slave who dresses me, sings to me, entertains me, comes at my command, or paints for me my picture.”
“Yet, Sado-ko, the artist did not paint your picture.”
For a moment she stood still in bewilderment, then went a step toward him. Her words were stammering, then changed to fervent, passionate appeal.
“Why, yes, he painted—that—assuredly he painted—it does not matter what the artist did. Komatzu, I have no thought within my mind, nor love within my heart, for any one in all the world save you.”
He took her hands and drew them upward to his lips, there to hold them for a space, then let them go again.