In all foreign communities of the Far East, but particularly in those where English influence prevails, three hybrid words become part of the daily vocabulary. The first is "tiffin," the second "amah," the third and most important, "chit."
Doubtless there are persons who know the origin of the last. I do not. Literally, it means a written message sent by a native runner. The foreign shops in the Far East abound in chit-books, made, most of them, in Manchester. They can be found in paper, cloth, or leather bindings. The "élite" tend toward Russia leather with a crest or monogram stamped in gold. Chit-books are to social life what check-books are to fiscal. The letter, note, or present comes accompanied by the inevitable "chit-book." The recipient is supposed to sign his name, and the hour, as in a telegram. This duty, in point of fact, is very soon relegated to the head butler, or the ingratiating "amah," a laxity which has produced more than one lawsuit and countless domestic scandals.
Tsuna, in due time, appeared with a large black leather book, aggressively and odorously new, a gold spread-eagle on the back. The envelope it accompanied was large and blue. It bore Pierre's name in the clear handwriting of Miss Todd.
The count signed the book and whispered Tsuna to remain just outside the door.
Before opening the new missive, Pierre threw himself into a chair, his face turned partly away from Ronsard. The latter picked up a rustling Paris newspaper, and over its quivering upper edge watched the smooth cheek of Pierre, his left ear, and the strip of pink neck showing over an immaculate collar.
Out of the folds of the blue letter fell a smaller one of white. This was addressed to Gwendolen. At sight of it the young man's heart gave a sick throb. He hid this in his coat, until the other should have been read.
"I send you this note of Yuki's in the original, because I want you to see more in the changed handwriting than in the formal words. I am not going to insult you by trying to say anything now, except that I am sorry. I sympathize with your trouble more deeply than you will, perhaps, believe. Come to me when you will. I shall say nothing but kind things. It is a wide gulf of race and of inherited ideals between you and Yuki. No love could hold the arch of a bridge quite so wide. But remember her poor little aching heart! There! I am, as usual, doing just what I vowed I wouldn't do. Oh, Pierre, I am sorry for you,—sorry, sorry! The world doesn't seem a very bright place, this morning, does it? I have been scolding a yama-buki bush that insists upon opening in our garden; but the flowers just laugh in my face. It is an unsympathetic universe! Your friend,
"Gwendolen."
Pierre held Yuki's letter long before reading it. A breath of her subtle personality must have clung to the scrap, for he inhaled from it a new bitterness, a new anguish. With a groan as of physical suffering he threw himself forward, put elbows on his knees, and deliberately forced himself to read, in rigid silence, the following note:
"My dear Gwendolen, who has been my only sister,—Your telegram having arrived, and Prince Haganè having come to me in person to speak of my duties and the opportunity he could give me at once in this time of trouble and war, I have myself willingly consented to be his wife. I am forced by nobody. You do not think badly of me for this, but some other will think very badly. Oh, please to speak kind and soothing things to that other. His grief is my aching always sorrow. I care not at all for my own, but I care very much for his. He will think me wicked and unfaithful to have broke so solemn pledge, but at the time of breaking I did not seem to myself wicked. We do not know how things sometimes have happened. But this has now happened to me. Ask him to forgive me. The marriage is to be held very soon; in fact, on Wednesday of the coming week. According to Japanese custom I must now be very secluded until that ceremony, not even seeing my sister, which is you. I believe Prince Haganè is to take me after to Kamakura. I do not care where he take me. Oh, Gwendolen, love your Yuki and pray for her to be strong. Always before I have been weak at a crisis. I must not now ever be weak. If pity can be held toward me in Pierre's heart, beseech him to leave Nippon. Your strangely feeling but loving,
"Yuki."
He let the sheet flutter sidewise to the floor, his eyes absently following. When it was quite still, the address being uppermost, he leaned nearer. "Miss Gwendolen Todd, American Legation, Azabu, Tokio," he read, his lips moving as he formed the words. "Miss Gwendolen Todd," he began, directly, reading again and again. A hand fell gently on his shoulder. "Is there to be an answer, Pierre?"