“Not much doing,” commented Geoffrey, “but the air’s good.”

“Not quite like a lake, it is?” his host reflected.

That was true.  A lake had always appealed to Geoffrey, both to his sense of natural beauty and to his instinct for sport.  There is a soothing influence in the imprisoned waters, the romance of the sea without its restlessness and fury.  The freshness of untrodden islands, the possibilities of a world beneath the waters, of half-perceived Venetas, the adventure of entrusting oneself and one’s fortunes to a few planks of wood, are delights which the lake-lover knows well.  He knows too, the delicious sense of detachment from the shore—­the shore of ordinary affairs and monotonous people—­and the charm of unfamiliar lights and colours and reflections.  Even on the Serpentine he can find this glamour, when the birds are flocking to roost in the trees of Peter Pan’s island.

But on this lake of Chuzenji there was a sullen brooding, an absence of life, a suggestion of tragedy.

“It isn’t a lake,” explained Reggie; “it’s the crater of an old volcano which has filled up with water.  It is one of the earth’s pockmarks healed over and forgotten.  But there is something lunar about it still, some memory of burned out passions, something creepy in spite of the beauty of the place.  It is too dark this evening to see how beautiful it is.  In places the lake is unfathomably deep, and people have fallen into the water and have never been seen again.”

The waters were almost blue now, a deep dull greyish blue.

Suddenly, away to the left, lines of silver streaked the surface; and, with a clapping and dripping commotion, a flight of white geese rose.  They had been dozing under the bank, and some one had disturbed them.  A pale figure like a little flame was dimly discernible.

“It’s Yae!” cried Reggie; and he made a noise which was supposed to be a jodel The white figure waved an answer.

Reggie picked up a megaphone which seemed to be kept there for the purpose.

“Good night,” he shouted, “same time to-morrow!”

The figure waved again and disappeared.

Next morning Geoffrey was awakened by the boom of a temple bell.  He stepped out on to his balcony, and saw the lake and the hills around clear and bright under the yellow sunshine.  He drank in the cool breath of the dew.  For the first time after many limp and damp awakenings he felt the thrill of the wings of the morning.  He thanked God he had come.  If only Asako were here! he thought.  Perhaps she was right in getting a Japanese home just for the two of them.  They would be happier there than jostled by the promiscuity of hotels.

At breakfast, Reggie had found a note from the Ambassador.

“Oh, damn!” he cried, “I must go over and beat a typewriter for two or three hours.  I must therefore break my tryst.  But I expect you to replace me like the immortal Cyrano, who should be the ideal of all soldiers.  Will you take Yae for an hour or two’s sail?  She likes you very much.”