“You look so pale,” she said. “Did you not sleep last night, my Junzo?”
“I did not sleep,” he said. “Come, let us walk where it is more secluded. I wish to speak with you alone.”
In a dreamy, pensive fashion she walked beside him. They crossed the little garden bridge to a quiet, shady spot. Once out of sight of the house, Junzo stopped short and, turning, faced her.
“Last night,” he said, “one told a nightmare story, which you denied. The morning is come. Tell me the truth.”
A flush spread over her face, as though she were half angered with him. She would not raise her eyes to his. His voice was firm—stern:—
“Answer me.”
“I cannot,” she replied, “when you speak in such a tone.”
Her heaving bosom told him she was on the verge of tears. Gently he took her hands in his and held them. His voice was tenderness itself.
“Now tell me all,” he said.
She tried to meet his eyes, but could not. Then she sought to draw her hands from his, while she averted her face.