“Look at me!” she said. “You do not dare, you artist-man. You know that I speak truth.”
As though she were an unholy thing, he shrank from her. She moved uncertainly about the room. Suddenly she asked quite querulously:—
“Where is my mother? I never realized before how much I loved her.” She looked about the room impatiently. “How dark it is! Let us have light.”
“No, no,” cried out the artist, imploringly, “there is sufficient.”
“Ah, you fear to see my face more plainly, artist? Yet I will have more light. My nerves are all unstrung. I could laugh and weep, and I could scream aloud at the least cause.”
She clapped her hands loudly, imperiously, then restlessly paced the room.
“The woman always came so slowly. The promptness of the menials of Nijo makes me impatient of this country slowness.”
Outside, in the corridors, the shuffling tread of the servant was heard. Masago, in her nervous state, could not wait for her to open the doors, but pushed them apart.
“Bring more lights,” she commanded, then stayed the woman by grasping her kimono at the shoulder: “Oh, it is you I see, Okiku. Come inside!”
The woman stepped into the room, looking up at her in a startled fashion, then glancing at the other silent two.