She made no reply.
“A thousand pardons for being so ungrateful. What would you command of me in penance?” I went forward as far as I could in anticipation; but in vain. She kept on looking up to the framed calligraphy of the priest, Daitetsu, as if she saw and heard nothing. Presently she read it in a soft murmur:
“Shadow of bamboo sweeping no dust rises.” Now she turned right round to me and said as if she suddenly came back to herself:
“What did you say, Sensei?”
She said it with a studied loudness; but I was not to be caught.
“I met that priest a while ago.” I set myself in motion for her benefit, imitating the “full round” movement of the earthquake shaken pool of water.
“The Osho-san of Kaikanji? He is quite stout, isn’t he?”
“He asked me if I would paint in oil on his paper screen! Those Zen priests are full of absurdities, arn’t they?”
“Probably that is why they get so fat.”
“I also met another, a young man.”