“Will you not at least tell me,” he said, “that you will pardon—forgive me for—for my intrusion—”
“I am very unhappy,” she said, still with her face turned from him. “I am not in condition to see any one—friends—strangers—any one. You have made me so miserable I—I pray to the gods sometimes that I might die.”
She slipped to the ground and buried her face in her arms on the little stone shelf of the well.
Now, the young attaché was really a good-hearted boy, in spite of his frivolity; and the sight of the little, sobbing figure touched him. He stood in a confusion of discomfort and remorse, while strange little waves and thrills of tender emotion swept over him and rendered him still more helpless.
He was too stupid to comprehend the cause of the girl’s wretchedness, and he was very young. Consequently, he actually experienced a thrill of vague pleasure at the thought that in some way his attractive personality was responsible for Hyacinth’s distress.
But while he stood hesitating and perspiring from sheer excitement, he became suddenly conscious of the fact that some one was coming from the house towards them. Aoi came hurriedly across the grass. She paused a moment, startled at the sight of the young foreigner in their private gardens. Then she saw the crouching girl, and in a moment comprehended the situation.
Poor, simple, amiable Aoi! Possibly never in all her life before had such violent feelings assailed her. She turned upon the intruder with flashing eyes.
“You come here! You make my daughter weep! You are bad lot. Leave my grounds or I will have you arrested!”
“Madame Aoi,” he protested, “I assure you that I meant no offence, but—”
Hyacinth had slowly risen to her feet. She put her arm gently about Aoi’s shoulder.