John Morning waved back the rickshaw coolie at the door of the little Japanese Inn, where he had been having his own way for several weeks, and walked down the Shiba road toward the Imperial hotel. He had half-expected to get on the committee, which meant work with the first army and a quick start; failing in that, he looked for his name to be called early in the second list, and was on the way now to find out. Morning shared the passion of the entire company to get afield at any cost.
Reasoning, however, did not lift his restlessness and apprehension. He had not been on the spot. He had been unable to afford life at the Imperial; and yet, the costliness of it was not altogether vain, since the old hotel had become a center of the world in the matter of war-correspondence. Japan reckoned with it as the point of foreign civilian force. While his brain could not organize a condition that would spoil his chance, Morning’s more unerring inner sense warned him that he was not established, as he walked in the rain.
His name was not posted in any of the three groups. The card blurred after his first devouring glance, so that he had to read again and a third time. For a moment he was out of hand—seething, eruptive. Yet there was nothing to fight....
Corydon Tait, a young Englishman with whom he had often talked and laughed, was standing by. Tait’s name was not down. Morning controlled himself to speak courteously.
The Englishman looked beyond him at the card. A chill settled upon Morning’s self-destructive heat. This was new in his world. In the momentary misunderstanding, he grasped Tait’s arm.
“Really, old chap, I’d prefer you not to do that,” the other said, drawing his arm away. “It must be plain that I don’t know you.”
“I thought you were joking,” said Morning.
4
Back on Shiba Road in the beginning of dusk, he turned to the native inn. The door slid open before his hand touched the latch; his figure having been seen through the papered lattice. The proprietor bowed to the matting and hissed with prolonged seriousness, hissed in fact until the American had removed and exchanged his shoes for sandals. The hand-maidens appeared and bowed laughingly. The old kitchen drudge emerged from her chimney and ogled. The mother of the house took the place beside her lord on the rostrum-of-the-pencils.[Pg 9] She did not hiss, but it was very clear that the matting under the white man’s feet was far above her in worthiness.
There was something of this formality with his every entrance. Morning had felt silly during the first days as he passed through the hedge of bent backs; the empty cringing and favor-groveling had seemed indecent. But now (in the dusk of the house before the candles) a faint touch of healing came from it. They had all served him. He had been fearfully over-served. They had bothered his work through excessive service—so many were the hands and so little to do. The women were really happy to work for him. To-night, a queer gladness clung to their welcome. He had fallen indeed to sense it. He was starving for reality, for some holy thing. They had stripped him at the Imperial. In his heart he was trying to make a reality now of this mockery of Japanese self-extinction.