Azalea’s fan fluttered closed. She bowed her head upon it.
“Excellency is very faithful.”
“Once,” said Matsuda, looking at her with half closed eyes, “your august samurai father deigned to call me ‘Dog.’ You will learn, maiden, that I shall prove my title to ‘Dog’ by my watchfulness and faithfulness. I have sworn to possess you, and possess you I will.”
The moment he was gone Azalea turned toward her step-mother, upon whose countenance a look of sweetest benevolence toward her step-daughter was slowly appearing.
“Mother-in-law,” said the girl, “you need not fear that I will marry him. No, my father spoke true words. He is a dog. He has only the instincts of a tradesman, and as such he comes here to buy the daughter of a samurai.”
“Your words are wise, Azalea,” said the step-mother, “and you win my maternal affection. Matsuda is not the fit husband for a warrior’s daughter. Yet, Azalea, bear in mind that Yuri, your sister, had for father one less elevated than a samurai—one, indeed, who was a mere tradesman. She is well fitted to be the wife of Matsuda Isami. Therefore, you can help or hinder this our ambition.”
“I will neither help nor hinder,” said Azalea, crossing the room, and looking through the shoji. “Mother-in-law, I have no interest in the matter,” she added.
Madame Yamada was behind her and had touched her arm, the arm she had lately pinched so viciously.
“Promise to be steadfast in your refusal of Matsuda. Promise that, Azalea, and you will find that harshness is an unknown quality in this household.”
“Oh, I will promise that, easily,” said Azalea. “I will not even look at or speak to the man. Other things now occupy my insignificant head.”