She stirred, and snuggled deeper. “She is truly asleep,” he thought.
“Moto-san!” he said softly again.
The girl opened her eyes, which suddenly filled with fright. Morning patted her shoulder gently. And now she sat up staring at him, and remembering.
He leaned his head upon his palm and shut his eyes—sign of falling asleep—then pointed her to the door.... Morning could not tell if she were pleased. It all seemed very strange to her—her smile was frightened. He repeated the gesture. She had slid off the bed to the matting upon her knees, facing him. And now she bowed to the floor, and backed out so, bowing with frightened smile.... He reflected dismally that she had lost value for the eye of the Inn-keeper.
5
Morning’s idea as he reached the Imperial next forenoon was to call the committee together, or a working part of it, and to demand why he had been barred from the projected columns.... The high and ancient lobby was practically empty. It appeared that the correspondents de rigeur and en masse were posing for a photograph on the rear balcony, which was reached through the billiard room. Morning went there and stood by the window while the picture was taken. It required an hour or more. He was passed and re-passed. Two or three Americans seemed on the point of asking him to take his place with the fifty odd war-men, but they checked themselves before speaking. Morning felt vilely marked. Stamina did not form within him. He did not realize that something finer than physical courage was challenged.
He watched the backs of the formation—the squared shoulders, the planted feet. He knew that in the minds of the posing company, each was looking at his own. From each individual to his lesser or greater circle, the finished picture would go. It would be reproduced in the periodicals which sent these men—“our special correspondent”—designated. Personal friends in each case would choose their own from the crowd. The little laughing chap in brown corduroys who arranged the group was the best and bravest man in field photography. He left the camera now to his assistant, and took place with the others. Men of twenty campaigns were there. The dim eyes of a certain little old man had looked upon more of war than any other living human being. In one brain or another, pictures were coiled from every campaign around the world during the past forty years. Never before in history had so many famous war-men gathered together. It would be a famous picture.... He, John Morning, would hear it in the future:
“... Why weren’t you in that picture?”
“I sat in the billiard room behind at a window. I had been barred out of a place among the first three columns. I was under a cloud of some kind.”
No, that would not be his answer. Various lies occurred.