Softly a hand slid back the shoji—a slender, small, expressive hand of perfect form and contour, and then a young girl’s face appeared at the opening. Her eyes were very dark, and infinitely, intensely sad in expression. Indeed, one might almost wonder whether their very brightness was not caused by the dews of unshed tears. She was pale. There was no color in her face at all, save that of her red lips.
So pale and ethereal she seemed to her rapturous lover that, for a moment, he was filled with an eerie fear—was she mortal, or one of those fragile spirits who abide on the earth for a season only? Then, all in a moment, her eyes meeting those of her lover, the sadness of the night passed from her like a shadow which is vanquished by the sunlight. An instant later she was again pale.
“Speak to me at once,” implored the lover, “for but a moment since I thought you a spirit. Dearest one, assure me that my passion is not in vain, and that my eyes deceive me when they fancy that yours are sad.”
Her voice faltered and trembled at first. Gradually she steadied it.
“My honorable eyes,” she said, “are not always faithful mirrors of my heart. Yes, indeed, you are deceived, my lord. Look again. Surely you will see that—that they do smile.”
“Yes,” he replied, regarding her somewhat wistfully, “it is true. They do smile, and yet—” He hesitated. “You do not appear happy, Fuji-wara.”
A strange little laugh escaped her lips. But she made no reply. She had turned her eyes from his, staring out before her. As the trouble deepened in the lover’s eyes, he reached up, touching very gently the small white hand on the sill. The light touch of his hand startled her. Before he could speak she had recovered herself, leaning farther over to him. Her words sounded strangely harsh.
“My lord, do let us resume our conversation concerning this brave cause to which you adhere.”
He flushed warmly.
“It seems incongruous,” he replied, after a moment, “that a tender maiden should be interested in political conflicts.”