“What do you call your home, then?” he inquired.
She answered in a whisper:—
“Kamakura!”
“Ah, yes, the castle Aoyama is there.”
She could not speak further. A page brought tea on a small lacquered tray. She touched it with her lips, then again relapsed into her attitude of weariness and languor.
The Crown Prince thought his cousin both stupid and dull. He mentally decided that her beauty had been overrated. Bright, flashing eyes, rosy lips, a vivacious countenance, in these days were considered a more desirable type of beauty than this tired, languid, waxen sort, mysteriously sad, despite perfection.
He wondered whether her allusion to Kamakura had to do with the famous artist there, of whom the young prince had heard.
Report had told him that the capricious Sado-ko had treated this plain artist with familiarity such that the court gossiped. While these thoughts ran vaguely through his mind, the princess interrupted with a question:—
“When is the wedding-day?” she asked.
“It is not set,” he replied somewhat stiffly.