Billie felt the general depression and after breakfast she followed her friends in a disconsolate procession to the library.

“There are as many different kinds of rain as there are people,” she observed.  “The rain in Scotland was like a brisk scolding person.  At least there was nothing monotonous and tiring about it.  It had plenty of vigor and energy.  But this Japanese summer rain is like a great, fat, stupid, lazy creature who never lifts a little finger to do anything but just rain and rain and turn into misty steam!”

“One hasn’t even the energy to read a book,” sighed Mary.

“As Reggie Carlton says, ‘it’s so infernally damp,’” put in Elinor, and the others smiled languidly.  Elinor was indeed feeling the humidity to quote a semi-profane expression.

Nancy was really the most cheerful member of the party.  She had an air of expecting something which appeared to give her a reason for existing.

After the outbursts of her three friends, there was a long and heavy silence broken only by the steady patter of the rain on the roof.

At last Nancy rose and smiling mysteriously, said: 

“Excuse me, ladies.  While your company is highly exciting, I must leave you to write letters.”

“I can’t imagine to whom,” exclaimed Billie.

“I mailed four for you yesterday to your mother and father and ‘Merry’ and Percy St. Clair.”

Billie knew Nancy’s affairs quite as well as she knew her own; two sisters could hardly have been more intimately associated.

“Guess again, Miss Inquisitive,” said Nancy.  “And guess fifty times more if you like.  You’ll never guess the right person and I shan’t tell you for punishment.  So there!”

For some reason—­of course it was the weather—­Billie felt teased and hurt.  Not for anything would she have kept Nancy in ignorance of any of her correspondence.

“I didn’t mean to be inquisitive.” she called, half apologetically.  “I was merely surprised at your being so mysterious.”

“When you get to be as old as I am,” said Nancy in a lofty tone, “you’ll know better than to tell all you know.”

“I’ll never get to be as old as you are, Miss Nancy-Bell,” retorted Billie.  “It’s a physical impossibility, since you are two months older than I am.”

Nancy departed from the room, calling out laughingly: 

“Smarty!  Smarty!”

Billie kicked off her slipper after her, and so the quarrel started with good natured raillery.  But the memory of the letter lingered in Billie’s mind all the morning, although why it should have connected itself with Onoye, who, an hour later, stepped out into the garden on high wooden clogs with an oiled paper umbrella, she could not say.  Standing idly by the window, Billie watched the little figure disappear down the path.

“I suppose she’s going to visit the Compassionate God again,” Billie thought to herself absently.  “I hope he’ll be compassionate enough to clear the weather by to-morrow.”