With those words, Mr. Fujinami picked up a newspaper to indicate that the audience was terminated; and Mr. Ito, after a series of prostrations, withdrew.

* * * * *

As soon as he was out of sight, Mr. Fujinami Gentaro selected from the pile in front of him a number of letters and newspapers.  With these in his hand, he left the study, and followed a path of broad, flat stepping-stones across the garden towards the cherry-orchard.  Here the way sloped rapidly downward under a drift of fallen petals.  On the black naked twigs of the cherry-trees one or two sturdy blossoms still clung pathetically, like weather-beaten butterflies.  Beyond a green shrubbery, on a little knoll, a clean newly-built Japanese house, like a large rabbit hutch, rested in a patch of sunlight.  It was the inkyo, the “shadow dwelling” or dower house.  Here dwelt Mr. Fujinami, senior, and his wife—­his fourth matrimonial experiment.

The old gentleman was squatting on the balcony of the front corner room, the one which commanded the best view of the cherry-grove.  He looked as if he had just been unpacked; for he was surrounded by reams and reams of paper, some white, and some with Chinese letters scrawled over them.  He was busy writing these letters with a kind of thick paint-brush; and he was so deep in his task that he appeared not to notice his son’s approach.  His restless jaw was still imperturbably chewing.

“O hay[=o] gozaimas’!”

“Tar[=o], yo!  O hay[=o]!” cried the old gentleman, calling his son by his short boy’s name, and cutting off all honorifics from his speech.  He always affected surprise at this visit, which had been a daily occurrence for many years.

“The cherry-flowers are fallen and finished,” said the younger man.  “Ah, human life, how short a thing!”

“Yes, one year more I have seen the flowers,” said Mr. Fujinami Gennosuke, nodding his head and taking his son’s generalisation as a personal reference.  He had laid his brush aside; and he was really wondering what would be Gentaro’s comment on last night’s feast and its guests of honour.

“Father is practising handwriting again?”

The old man’s mania was penmanship, just as his son’s was literature.  Among Japanese it is considered the pastime becoming to his age.

“My wrist has become stiff.  I cannot write as I used to.  It is always so.  Youth has the strength but not the knowledge; age has the knowledge, but no strength.”

As a matter of fact, Mr. Gennosuke was immensely satisfied with his calligraphy, and was waiting for compliments.

“But this, this is beautifully written.  It is worthy of Kobo Daishi!” said the younger man, naming a famous scholar priest of the Middle Ages.  He was admiring a scroll on which four characters were written in a perpendicular row.  They signified, “From the midst of tranquillity I survey the world.”