“Is there a great objection?” asked Geoffrey.

“It is impossible,” said Lady Cynthia.

A sudden weariness came over Geoffrey.  Did that ruthless “Impossible” apply to his case also?  Would Lady Everington’s door be closed to him on his return?  Was he guilty of that worst offence against Good Form, a mesalliance?  Or was Asako saved—­by her money?  Something unfair was impending.  He looked at the two girls seated by the fireside, sipping their tea and laughing together.  He must have shown signs of his embarrassment, for Lady Cynthia said,—­

“Don’t be absurd, Captain Barrington.  The case is entirely different.  A lady is always a lady, whether she is born in England or Japan.  Miss Smith is not a lady; still worse, she is a half-caste, the daughter of an adventurer journalist and a tea-house woman.  What can one expect?  It is bad blood.”

* * * * *

After taking leave of the Cairns, Geoffrey and Asako crossed the garden compound, white and Christmas-like under its covering of snow.  They found their way down the by-path which led to the discreet seclusion of Reggie Forsyth’s domain.  The leaping of fire shadows against the lowered blinds gave a warm and welcoming impression of shelter and comfort; and still more welcoming were the sounds of the piano.  It was a pleasure for the travellers to hear, for they had long been unaccustomed to the sound of music.  Music should be the voice of the soul of the house; in the discord of hotels it is lost and scattered, but the home which is without music is dumb and imperfect.

Reggie must have heard them coming, for he changed the dreamy melody which he was playing into the chorus of a popular song which had been rife in London a year ago.  Geoffrey laughed.  “Father’s home again!  Father’s home again!” he hummed, fitting the words to the tune, as he waited for the door to open.

They were greeted in the passage by Reggie.  He was dressed in all respects like a Japanese gentleman, in black silk haori (cloak), brown wadded kimono and fluted hakama (skirt).  He wore white tabi (socks) and straw zori (slippers).  It is a becoming and sensible dress for any man.

“I thought it must be you,” he laughed, “so I played the watchword.  Fancy you’re being so homesick already.  Please come in, Mrs. Harrington.  I have often longed to see you in Japan, but I never thought you would come; and let me take your coat off.  You will find it quite warm indoors.”

It was warm indeed.  There was the heat of a green-house in Reggie’s artistically ordered room.  It was larger too than on the occasion of Geoffrey’s visit; for the folding doors which led into a further apartment were thrown open.  Two big fires were blazing; and old gold screens, glittering like Midas’s treasury, warded off the draught from the windows.  The air was heavy with fumes of incense still rising from a huge brass brazier, full of glowing charcoal and grey sand, placed in the middle of the floor.  In one corner stood the Buddha table twinkling in the firelight.  The miniature trees were disposed along the inner wall.  There was no other furniture except an enormous black cushion lying between the brazier and the fireplace; and in the middle of the cushion—­a little Japanese girl.