Aoi had hardly reached the foot of the little spiral stairs when there were sharp rappings upon the door. With her hand pressed tight to her fluttering heart, she hastened forward. Without waiting for the slow Mumè to answer the summons, she pushed the door aside.
Then she stood still, dumbly, on the threshold. The next instant Komazawa had seized her in his arms and was covering her face with kisses. Against her son’s breast she began to sob in a helpless, hopeless fashion, piteous to see.
He, with his arm close about her, comforted softly, and then turning to the strangers who were with him, he said, quietly:
“You see my unexpected arrival has upset my mother. You must excuse the welcome. But, come, let us enter.”
The man and woman, exchanging glances, followed the young man and his mother into the guest-room.
The woman was tall and had once been pretty. She was faded now, and her blond hair was dull and streaked, showing the effects of having once been bleached. The man was well preserved, but bore the evidence of rich living in the somewhat reddened and bloated appearance of eyes and cheeks. His hair was gray and he wore a short imperial. Just now his expression was one of extreme uneasiness. His lips twitched nervously, and his brow was drawn. He had long, slender, white hands, the fingers nicotine stained. He had a straight, military figure, and was dressed in a rather outré manner.
Aoi regarded him with undisguised fearfulness. She had no notion who these strangers could be, yet there was something in the man’s restless attitude that aroused her apprehensions. She turned anxiously to her son. He was grave and pale.
“Mother,” he said, “this is Mr. and Mrs. Lorrimer. You have been expecting them, I believe.”
Aoi was so moved that she could only bow feebly to her visitors.
Her son’s voice was low and, to her agitated fancy, strained.