madame, never.  I never go to that house of devils.  How can madame tell the good confessor?  How can madame go to the Holy Mass?  Will madame leave her husband and go to these people who pray to stone beasts?  Wait for monsieur!’ I say, ’What Tanaka say, it is lies, all the time lies.  What Mademoiselle Smith say all lies.’  But madame say, ‘No come with me, Titine!’ But I say again, ‘Never!’ And madame go away, crying all the time:  and sixteen rickshaw all full of baggage.  “Oh, monsieur le capitaine, what shall I do?”

“I’m sure, I don’t know,” said the helpless Geoffrey.

“Send me back to France, monsieur.  This country is full of devils, devils and lies.”

He left her sobbing in the hall of the hotel with a cluster of boy sans watching her.

* * * * *

Geoffrey took a taxi to the Fujinami house.  No one answered his ringing; but he thought that he could hear voices inside the building.  So he strode in, unannounced, and with his boots on his feet, an unspeakable offence against Japanese etiquette.

He found Asako in a room which overlooked the garden where he had been received on former occasions.  Her cousin Sadako was with her and Ito, the lawyer.  To his surprise and disgust, his wife was dressed in the Japanese kimono and obi which had once been so pleasing to his eyes.  Her change of nationality seemed to be already complete.

This was an Asako whom he had never known before.  Her eyes were ringed with weeping, and her face was thin and haggard.  But her expression had a new look of resolution.  She was no longer a child, a doll.  In the space of a few hours she had grown to be a woman.

They were all standing.  Sadako and the lawyer had formed up behind the runaway as though to give her moral support.

“Asako,” said Geoffrey sternly, “what does this mean?”

The presence of the two Japanese exasperated him.  His manner was tactless and unfortunate.  His tall stature in the dainty room looked coarse and brutal.  Sadako and Ito were staring at his offending boots with an expression of utter horror.  Geoffrey suddenly remembered that he ought to have taken them off.

“Oh, damn,” he thought.

“Geoffrey,” said his wife, “I can’t come back.  I am sorry.  I have decided to stay here.”

“Why?” asked Geoffrey brusquely.

“Because I know that you do not love me.  I think you never loved anything except my money.”

The hideous irony of this statement made poor Geoffrey gasp.  He gripped the wooden framework of the room so as to steady himself.

“Good God!” he shouted.  “Your money!  Do you know where it comes from?”

Asako stared at him, more and more bewildered.

“Send these people out of the room, and I’ll tell you,” said Geoffrey.

“I would rather they stayed,” his wife answered.

It had been arranged beforehand that, if, Geoffrey called, Asako was not to be left alone with him.  She had been made to believe that she was in danger of physical violence.  She was terribly frightened.