He repeated the word stupidly.
“Of what council do you speak?”
She stroked the damp hair backward with her tender fingers.
“My Junzo always was the absent-minded son, so given to his studies and his art he could not spare a thought for other matters.”
He put his hands upon those on his head, and drew his mother about until she was before him. Then, looking in her face with searching, troubled eyes, he said:—
“Was there a council of our family?”
“Why, yes, my son,—that day you went to Tokyo.”
He passed his hand across his brow, then seemed to listen for a space. Slowly a look of horror crept across his face.
“It was my marriage council!” he gasped.
“Why, yes, dear Junzo; your marriage to the maid Masago. Ah, you are quite ill, my son.”