“‘Know’st thou the land of the citron bloom?’”

As she approached the bridge she felt a little frightened for some reason.  It was rather reckless of her to come down to this lonely place in the late afternoon even if it was their own premises.  It was the first time she had done it and she decided it would be the last.  But as long as she had come, she would see it through.  Nancy could hardly explain to herself what she meant by “seeing it through.”

She would stroll carelessly down the path, walk across the bridge, pause a moment and walk back again, not looking behind her of course, as, if she were observed, and she was sure she was not, she would pretend she was out for a walk and had not expected to meet anyone.  Thus Nancy reasoned with herself, but by the time she had reached the bridge she had changed her mind and was about to turn and hasten back, when she noticed a beautiful tea rose that had been laid conspicuously on the hand rail of the bridge.

“He has been here,” she thought.  “He must have just gone.  The rose is quite fresh.”

Sticking its long stem through the buttonhole of her raincoat, she glanced about her curiously.  Somehow, behind every clump of shrubs and every branching pine tree she felt black eyes staring at her and yet she was sure she was alone.  Again she started for the house, feeling profoundly relieved that Yoritomo had not waited, if, indeed, it was he who had left the rose.  Suddenly Nancy’s heart jumped into her throat and she felt a cold chill down her spinal column,—­and for no reason, except that standing in front of her was not a man, but a woman.  The stranger was too tall to be a Japanese and she was dressed, moreover, in European clothes,—­a beautifully fitting tailor-made suit and English traveling hat of stitched cloth.  But there was something faintly suggestive of the Japanese about her face.  Perhaps it was the slightly slanting eyes and the smooth olive skin.  Her hair was much lighter than her eyes and quite fluffy; her features were regular and there was a graceful dignity in the poise of her head on her shoulders.  Nancy concluded after a swift examination that she was, if peculiar looking, still strangely fascinating.

“May I ask your pardon for intruding on your beautiful gardens?” began the woman, speaking with a slightly English accent.  “I did not expect to meet any one on this rainy afternoon.”

Nancy wondered how she had got into the garden and where she had come from.  These things the stranger did not explain.  However, Nancy answered politely: 

“It isn’t my garden, but I am sure Mr. Campbell would be delighted to have other people enjoy it.”

“You are a sweet child,” said the woman, deliberately taking Nancy’s chin in her hand and looking down at her, “a sweet, exquisite child.”

After all, Nancy decided, this mysterious lady was both fascinating and beautiful.

“And who is Mr. Campbell?”