Our boat glided down with delightful smoothness, the willow trees on the embankments on either side, flitting backward as rustic airs came wafting, probably from the young damsels at the weaving machines in houses little yonder, gently stirring the silence of the calm Spring afternoon.
“Sensei, won’t you paint my picture?” demanded Nami-san, as her brother and Kyuichi were engrossed in soldiery topics, while the old gentleman had started journeying to dreamland.
“Why, with pleasure,” I answered, taking out my sketch book and writing down in it:
“Harukazeni sora toke shusuno meiwa nani?”[(q)]
Nami-san curtsied, smiling, and said: “Not a single stroke sketch like this, but a carefully executed production, giving expression to my spirit and character, Sensei.”
“I wish I could oblige you with all my heart; but to be frank, your face, as it is, would not make a picture.”
“Thanks for your compliments. But what am I to do to make myself fit for a picture?”
“Don’t get angry, O-Nami-san; I can make a fine picture of you at this very moment. But there is something wanting in your expression, and it will be a great pity to portray you without that something.”
“Something wanting? That cannot be helped, as I cannot be anything else but what I am born with.”
“You may be born with; but the face may look in all sorts of ways.”