“No!”
She seized the paper and read, her eyes dilating with horror as she did so. It was a receipt for a loan of 75 yen. Her hand fell limply to her side. The paper fluttered to the ground.
What! Was the money of this Matsuda paying for the sacred garments of her child! Ah, how terribly blind must have been her husband to accept help from such a source. Her pride scorched her. She suddenly turned and walked swiftly into the house. In a moment, however, she returned, a lacquer box and the tiny garment upon which she had worked in her arms. She set the box at Matsuda’s feet.
“There,” she said, “is what is left of your evil money. Some of it I have already spent upon this garment. I would not let it touch my child.” She tore it across and threw the pieces upon the box.
“Go now!” She pointed to the gate. “You contaminate his august home. I have always hated you, Matsuda Isami, now more than ever. My father spoke true words. You are a dog!”
Laughing softly, he stooped and lifted the box, then slowly counted its contents.
“Seventy-five yen,” he said, “was the amount of the loan. There are but twenty-five here.”
“My husband’s letter will come in the next foreign mail,” she replied proudly. “You will wait until then.”
He changed his tone.
“Madame Azalea, it is well known that you are deserted by the barbarian. No one pities you, because it is alleged you insulted your ancestors for the sake of this beast. Now you have become an outcast. Even the beggars will not ask you for charity. Yet I—I, Matsuda Isami, whom you have named ‘dog,’ have compassion upon you.”