A servant brought Masago her evening tea, which the girl mechanically drank as she nibbled at the crisp rice cakes. She did not speak to the attendant while she dined, but continued to stare before her through the opened shoji. When she had finished, she clapped her hands, at which signal the tray was carried away.
The shadow and the fog intermingled, darkening the sky without and deepening the twilight gloom of the room. A little later the servant returned, bringing a lighted andon, which she set significantly by the silent girl. Then Masago stirred from her abstraction. She saw the eyes of the servant upon the picture in her hand. On a sudden, savage impulse she leaped to her feet and fairly sprung upon the woman, clutching her by the shoulders.
“Always look! Always see! Foolwoman!” she said in a whisper which was yet a cry.
Mists of Kamakura.
The woman shook the hands from her shoulders by simply shrugging the latter angrily. Then she replied:—
“Eyes are made to look, and when one looks one sees; yet eyes have not the tongue to tell what they see, Masago.” Turning her back upon the servant, the girl walked away.
The woman glided soundlessly across the room and disappeared into the narrow hall outside. Silent as was her going, yet Masago knew she was gone. She turned about with a sudden movement of passionate feeling.
“The woman knows!” she said, and clasped her hands spasmodically.
Then up and down she paced with unquiet feet, to stand still a moment, beating her hands softly together and biting the nails, and then again to pace the room. She threw herself upon the floor. Once again she drew the picture from her sleeve, to press it to her lips. After a while she sat up stiffly, as though she listened.