Junzo’s brows were slightly drawn together. He bowed without answering the smiling Fuji.
“And so,” she continued, taking a step nearer to him, “I am going to look upon the picture, since you will not heed command, and even though—”
Her hand was upon the silken covering, which she had partly lifted. Junzo’s hand fell upon hers like a vice. She did not, however, release the covering, but clutched at it beneath his fingers, her half-defiant, half-smiling eyes upon his face.
“Lady Fuji-no!” he cried, breathing heavily, “I must command—”
“Command!” she repeated haughtily; “and when, Sir Artist, did you acquire authority at court? By what right do you, a hired artist, dare to command a lady of the household of her Imperial Highness?”
She wrenched at the covering, and it began to slip from the top of the picture.
“In the name of Princess Sado-ko!” he cried.
The covering had slipped to the floor, and even the most impassive of the ladies had started back with little gasps of consternation. The canvas that faced them now was blank.
There was complete silence in the salon of the visiting artist. Then almost simultaneously all eyes were turned from that blank canvas to the face of the artist-man.
He stood there like one overtaken by a sudden tragedy. His face was white and drawn, his eyes, always large and dark, were widened now. His nostrils quivered, and his lips were dry. The very sight of his despair had a moving effect upon all, save the Lady Fuji-no, who began to laugh very softly. Thus she broke the silence. Her words were slow and cruel:—