“That is very unkind, my lord. You do not credit me, then, with any other quality, apparently, than that of pale softness. Indeed, my vanity has saved me from the knowledge that the gods have been most unkind.”
“Nay, do not speak so,” he tenderly chid her. Of late he had chafed not a little at her persistent waiving aside of all tenderer subjects to discuss those of larger import to men alone.
“Well, then,” she persisted, “say that I am capricious, whimsical, what you will. But do, pray, humor me, and if I find it necessary”—she stammered over her words—“if I find it interesting to discuss such matters, pray allow me to do so.”
“Do so, then, at once, dear one! I am all ears to listen and all tongue to reply.”
“Pray tell me, then, are you truly an Imperialist at heart, or merely so in name because you are a Mori?”
“Pray tell me where my insignificant sympathies should lie, and there I swear to you shall they be.”
She protested that he but begged her question. Did he, then, consider, because she was but a weak maiden, that her interest in such a matter must needs be a slight thing? Was she not herself a daughter of a samurai, and did not the flame, the fire of patriotism glow unceasingly in her breast also?
“Dear Wistaria,” entreated the lover, “I pray you do not disturb your gentle bosom with these questions which are meant for soldiers, not for maidens.”
“Nay, then,” she replied, and there were tears in her voice now, “why will you persist so? You are quite wrong, too. Let me repeat: I am the daughter of a family whose women have had their honorable share in the affairs of the nation.”
“True, but your house has stood always on one side only. They have never deigned even to hear the argument, the pious, patriotic cry of the other side.”