Old Mr. Fujinami had called her “the Semi.”  Asako did not yet know the voice of the little insects which are the summer and autumn orchestra of Japan.  But she knew that it must be something happy and sweet; or they would not have told her.

* * * * *

She rose from her knees, and found her cousin waiting for her on the veranda.  Whatever real expression she may have had was effectively hidden behind the tinted glasses, and the false white complexion, now renovated from the ravages of emotion.  But Asako’s heart was won by the power of the dead, of whom Sadako and her family were, she felt, the living representatives.

Asako took both of her cousin’s hands in her own.

“It was sweet of you and your mother to give me that,” she said—­and her eyes were full of tears—­“you could not have thought of anything which would please me more.”

The Japanese girl was on the point of starting to bow and smile the conventional apologies for the worthlessness of the gift, when she felt herself caught by a power unfamiliar to her, the power of the emotions of the West.

The pressure on her wrists increased, her face was drawn down towards her cousin’s, and she felt against the corner of her mouth the warm touch of Asako’s lips.

She started back with a cry of “Iya! (don’t!),” the cry of outraged Japanese femininity.  Then she remembered from her readings that such kissings were common among European girls, that they were a compliment and a sign of affection.  But she hoped that it had not disarranged her complexion again; and that none of the servants had seen.

Her cousin’s surprise shook Asako out of her dream; and the kiss left a bitter powdery taste upon her lips which disillusioned her.

“Shall we go into the garden?” said Sadako, who felt that fresh air was advisable.

They joined hands; so much familiarity was permitted by Japanese etiquette.  They went along the gravel path to the summit of the little hillock where the cherry-trees had lately been in bloom, Sadako in her bright kimono, Asako in her dark suit.  She looked like a mere mortal being introduced to the wonders of Titania’s country by an authentic fairy.

The sun was setting in the clear sky, one half of which was a tempest of orange, gold and red, and the other half warm and calm with roseate reflections.  Over the spot where the focus point of all this glory was sinking into darkness, a purple cloud hovered like a shred of the monarch’s glory caught and torn away on the jag of some invisible obstruction.  Its edges were white flame, as though part of the sun’s fire were hidden behind it.

Even from this high position little could be seen beyond the Fujinami enclosure except tree-tops.  Away down the valley appeared the grey scaly roofs of huddled houses, and on a hill opposite more trees with the bizarre pinnacle of a pagoda forcing its way through the midst of them.  It looked like a series of hats perched one on the top of the other by a merchant of Petticoat Lane.