Once during the afternoon his relatives left the two alone. Then the girl softly raised her eyes, to glance in his direction. At the ardent glance she met, her eyes dropped immediately. So much did he wish to see again those dark and lovely eyes that he complained of a discomfort.
He desired another quilt (though it was very warm), and also a high futon for his head. She brought them to him, without speaking. When she put the pillow underneath his head, he tried to speak her name with all the ardor of his love.
“Sado—” He stopped aghast. His lips had framed that other name. The kneeling maiden’s eyes met his. Her voice was soft:—
“Who is Sado-ko?” she asked.
Flushing in shame and mortification, he could not meet her eyes. When she repeated her quiet question, the strangest smile dimpled her lips at the frown upon his averted face.
“Who is Sado-ko?”
“It is a name,” he said, “just a name.”
“It has a pretty sound,” she said.
Though he moved his head restlessly, she pursued the subject.
“Do you not think so, Junzo?”