“The old samurai defended his country against the foreigner and no descendant of a samurai, either now or ever, would endure for a foreigner to learn the secrets of his country.  But that is not fanaticism.  That is patriotism.  He is very jealous of his country’s honor, you understand.  You will look at the history of other countries.  First it is only a few foreigners; then more and more.  They slip into the government.  They spread their ideas and customs—­they get a foot-hold—­then—­all of a sudden, what is it?  Not Japan any longer—­but—­America—­England.”

“Oh, come off, Yoritomo,” cried Nicholas, laughing.  “What in the name of all the powers are you driving at?  There are about forty millions of people on this island and I guess a few foreigners won’t make much headway in such a bunch as that.”

“At least, you are not afraid of being Americanized, Mr. Ito,” broke in Nancy, “since you were educated in America.”

“I am not afraid of the invasion of beautiful American young ladies,” answered Yoritomo gallantly, and the others laughed and felt somewhat relieved that the conversation had drifted into a less serious vein.  They drew their chairs into a circle about the fire and talked pleasantly for some time, when they were summoned back to the drawing-room by Mr. Campbell, who reminded Elinor of a promise she had made to him to sing for them with her guitar.

This performance was a subject of wondering curiosity to the servants of the household.  Through the door to the dining-room Elinor caught a glimpse of a multitude of natives crouched on the floor behind the screen, including Komatsu and O’Haru, all the little maids, the numerous grandmothers, and the ’riksha men who had brought the guests out from Tokyo.  If the music seemed strange to the Japanese ear trained for centuries to a curious uneven scale, at least they admired Elinor’s lovely voice, clear and sweet as a bell.  She had a large repertoire and knew all the favorites of everybody.  While she was singing “Oh, that we two were Maying,” at the request of Miss Campbell, Nancy, seated on the couch beside Billie, near the door, whispered into her friend’s ear: 

“I left my handkerchief in the library,” and slipped into the hall.  Hardly a moment later Billie, glancing through the door, saw Nancy in the distance, beckoning violently.  She rose and followed, much against her will, thinking perhaps Nancy wished to bestow a confidence which might just as well be kept until later.

“What on earth do you want?” she asked, with the irritability intimate friends use toward each other without meaning really to be cross.

“The queerest thing has happened.  The library is perfectly black dark.”

“I don’t think there is anything specially remarkable about that.  The fire had burned low before we left and I suppose one of the maids put out the lamps.  The Japs are nothing if not economical.”

“They are nothing if not polite, too,” argued Nancy.  “And I am sure they wouldn’t put out the lights before the company left.  Besides, they are all listening to Elinor sing.”