The return to Tokyo of Sylvia Elliott at this very time seemed an especially kind dispensation of . Kent had seen practically nothing of her since his arrival in Japan. In his eagerness to immerse himself in the Japanese life, to steep himself therein, he had felt as if he had no time for intermingling with the foreign element, had almost resented its intrusion where he had not been able to avoid it. The whites, Americans, British, French and the rest were, after all, commonplace, of affording the of the new, the attraction of the unknown, the of the constant to and beyond the mysteries behind the shoji. He had known people like that all his life; now, in Japan, he wanted to be with the Japanese; in that way only was it possible to to the full the charm of living in a foreign country, strange, , exotic, to taste with the critical with which a a rare vintage, in slow sips, the impressions and sensations from the colorful life stirring all about him.  
And then she had been in the country most of the time, on tours in the mountain regions about Nikko, Chuzenji, Ikao. He had with half-attentive curiosity that in spite of his avoidance of the foreign element he was pleased to see her again, that she formed an exception. As he came to see her more often, he was surprised, delighted, that instead of as a note in the symphony of life which he was trying to compose by[Pg 73] blending his life in to his surroundings, she fitted herself into it, even enhanced his pleasure therein. She had the capacity for , the understanding of the essential soul of Japan, which is so rare with foreign women, who, though their eye for beauty admits and even admires the charm of carved temple gate, or gnarled pine projecting from rocky crag, stop short with the externals, refuse to extend sympathetic understanding to the people themselves, the Japanese, blinded by the instinctive of the white woman at the competitive charm of womankind of another race. She had none of that. As he did, so she chose to overlook the that they might not disturb her enjoyment of the colors. Possibly it was that the artist in her was stronger than the woman. He concluded that it must be so—but what was the difference! He found that when he was with her, delight in the discovery of beauty, of landscape, a bit of garden, the blending of color in a woman's dress, or even a beautiful face, became heightened, keener, as if concentrated, more clearly defined, through the doubled capacity for appreciation of two minds which functioned as one.
 
For a while they saw much of each other, were constantly together on expeditions into the surrounding country, or, oftener, on through remote quarters of the great, labyrinthic capital, voyages of discovery in unknown streets where every turn of the road might lead to new adventure, or bizarre incident which might be added to the treasures in their common storehouse of memories. They delighted to lose themselves in some section unfrequented by foreigners, where one might wander about through the whole day without seeing a white face, and then to exercise their in[Pg 74] finding their way through the to some guiding .
 
"My God, if my wife had only been like that," or rather, he hastened to the thought, if only Isabel had been with him and he might have taught her, guided her to become like this. But instantly his intelligence interrupted disturbingly; Isabel couldn't. She would be like the majority of the women, , magnifying the stupidity of a cook, the petty of a peddler to the point where they her entire view of all Japan. It persisted as a voice clamoring at him, and he forced himself to try to think otherwise, as if he might, by forced violence of the voice of his will, over-shout, drown the of his intelligence.
 
So he came to compel himself to resist the thought, to think of other matters, politics, money, even to work out in his head mathematical problems. But it was difficult at times. After a day with Sylvia, with her presence, returning through lanes, past bamboo fences, when the thrill of cicadas with the whimper of unseen samisen, and the moonlight transformed the world into a black-and-white tracery of branches, sharply roof-tree contours out against a sky, his entire being would be singing within him, and he would step lightly, head thrown back, whistling, enamored with the world, with life.
 
And then like a , sharply, suddenly, like a stitch in the side, would snap into his brain the inspiration of the devil: "Why all this gayety?" It was as if the damnable thought took shape, personified itself into a , leering, grinning , with an . "You fool, of course, you are in——" But he was used to it, was on guard, too quick for the imp; would fling him a mental kick, indignantly,[Pg 75] "Shut up, of course, I am not, you beast." But again, "It is no use. You can't deceive me. You can't even deceive yourself. You know damned well that you are in——" Would come again of his thoughts to calculation of , of bills due at the end of the month, any beastly thing. He had even tried to think tenderly of Isabel, to recall the high lights of courtship, red-letter days of early marriage, to try to a reluctant hope, to compel himself to wish that she might come back to him, make another attempt to blow into flame the ashes of dead love.
 
For, of course, he did not love Sylvia. He snapped his back into the teeth of the grinning satyr-face popping , irritatingly, from the corners of his mind. He did not love her—with thought of her came weakness, softness—at least, he could not love her, would not. It was impossible; not to be thought of. So long as he was married to Isabel, he would play the game, keep his side of the clean, not place himself in the wrong. Popped into his mind an incident of a few days before. He had been dancing with Sylvia at a tea dance at the Imperial Hotel. The orchestra leader, slim, , one of these men who seem capable of radiating , joy of life, had been singing, eyes flashing across the length of his , leaning forward towards the couples swaying to his rhythm before him, infusing them with his flame. It had been a trivial thing, one of the of new fox-trots which spring forth like lush weeds, the words utterly . As Hugh was passing, he had glanced up, his eyes had met those of the happy fiddler for the flash of a moment, and as he sang the words, the silly, stuff, "When you play the game of love, are you playing fair," he had laughed to him. It seemed almost as if there had been[Pg 76] the slightest suggestion of a knowing wink, conveying the suggestion that he, the fiddler, was sharer of a secret between the two, and as if he had, friendlily , his head toward Sylvia. Even at the moment, Kent had been certain that it was all a play of imagination, a pleasantry by his accursed imp familiar, but the thing had stuck in his mind with absurdly exaggerated force.
 
Confound it! It was exactly the opposite thing. He was playing fair. There was not even suggestion of a game of love, of love at all. love, then? It was almost as if the suggestion had been shouted at him; he could even perceive the ring of , the incredulous with which the world usually accompanies the phrase. It made him angry. Why that stupid sneer? Why, after all, should not platonic love be possible? To swine no, of course not. But he did not expect to be a swine, was not one, in fact. If the majority, the ruck of humanity, were too gross to conceive of the possibility, the worse for them. That was none of his affair. He could be, he was capable of intimate association with a beautiful woman unblemished by thought, suggestion, even hint of sex.
 
The idea came to please him. It seemed capable of placing at an end the indefinite suggestiveness of his thoughts, reduced the whole matter to a concrete basis, the definitiveness of something recognized as an existing phenomenon. His mind became easier. Might flash before him a glimpse of what Karsten, for instance, would say should he have divined his conclusion. He saw in his mind's eye the friendly irony of his indulgent smile. Karsten was not unimaginative, just the contrary: still he had dulled fineness of perception by over-indulgence in affairs of love. History[Pg 77] had examples of it, Dante and Beatrice, and Petrarch and Laura, and—— For the moment he could think of no others. Instantly the imp. "Damned rare, eh!" He snapped his fingers. What was the difference; the rarer, the more precious.
 
So he drifted on, more happily, more at peace with himself; felt that he might safely, without feeling of or , continue in this relation; need not studiously, confine himself to enjoying only the mind, the sympathy of thought with this woman, but might allow himself, continently, to find pleasure in the play of light on her hair, in letting his eye rest with satisfied appreciation on the curve of her cheek, the contour of her figure. Life was being good to him. Even if an inspiration of a moment might upon him when least expected, "What if there had been no Isabel?" He had gotten himself in hand now; his course was set, he had but to , carefully, but, after all, safely.
 
And then, just as he had contrived to reduce his problem to safe and definite , the whole thing dissipated, shattered into a baffling void as does a glorious, bubble brilliantly in the sunlight suddenly vanish into utter nothingness without Visible cause or agency. She became . The accustomed places saw her no more. On rare occasions he might run across her, but the circumstances were almost inauspicious,—a meeting on the Ginza, at the Imperial, always with a background of entirely inconsequential persons irritatingly intruding their irritating presence. Even when he might manage to attain an occasional moment alone with her, nothing was gained. She was not cold, not even formal, but without appearing to wish to avoid him, she contrived to do so. There were always reasons, each one manifestly , why she could not accept this or that invitation. There were no more rambles together, no more dances. He marveled at the skill with which she maintained the appearance of continuance of the old and yet , with sureness, an invisible barrier. He felt like a fly dashing itself against a clear of glass, hopelessly by the unsurmountable of the invisible. What the devil could be the matter? He racked his brain, trying to seek a cause, to recall whatever incident, some error of or commission, careless or clumsy phrase, but always with the same result. He could think of nothing; there was nothing. And she was manifestly not capricious, not a endeavoring to season more highly a man-woman relationship by the spurious of coquetry. It was , irritating, maddening. What a damnable capacity for was by even the best of women! Was that one of the traits of the eternal feminine, an unescapable remnant of the Old Eve, just as all men must have in them some trace of the Old Adam? Probably the phenomenon was nothing very intricate or perplexing to men who knew women, who had experience in diagnosing such symptoms. He had never envied Karsten; had rather been inclined to pity him as one who had dulled his capacity for enjoyment of the best things in female companionship by over-indulgence; still, for the purposes of this occasion, at least, he wished that he possessed his facility with women, whatever advantages his experience might give him for grappling with such problems.
 
Then, Karsten came to his aid unexpectedly. They were smoking after dinner. Nothing much was being said. Karsten was wandering up and down the floor, chewing the stem of his pipe. Suddenly he[Pg 79] out, of nothing whatever, pipe-stem waving in the direction of Kent:
 
"I say, Kent, mind you, I am not trying to on your affairs, but, I just wonder, have you ever mentioned to Miss Elliott anything about your wife, anything about your being married?"
 
"What? What's that?" He was at him surprised, fish-like. "I say, old man, what in the devil are you driving at, anyway?"
 
He had been thinking of Sylvia just then, forcing his mind to travel wearily over the same old ground, trying to discover some foothold from which to gain his way out from the baffling intangibility, the vagueness of it all. Karsten's question was right in line with his thoughts, fitted in as a marvelously apposite thing, as if he had been trying to work out a fretwork puzzle and Karsten had, by some surprising intuition, dumped before him one of the pieces for which he had been looking to effect the solution. He shook himself together. It seemed as if he must know something, have some idea, anyway, some kind of factor which might aid in puzzling it all out.
 
He repeated, "And what are you driving at, anyway?" Absurdly, he felt his chest contracting, the pulses in his temples . He had no business to be so excited.
 
"Well, I was wondering. I came across the fag end of a bit of gossip to-day at the Imperial. Old Mrs. Tinker, the chief lady cat, you know, called me over to her table, at tea. She doesn't usually so favor me, you know. She's had enough to say about my foibles, what she could find out and what she could imagine. But she simply couldn't contain herself. She had just gotten hold of something that was too good to keep, that she must get off her chest to some one, any one, I fancy, and then I was your friend. I must[Pg 80] have been just like a find. Maybe the old lady has some kind of rudimentary, sense of the dramatic—or she may have hoped to get something more in the way of detail out of me. Anyway, she was full with it right up to the neck. She couldn't even show a bit of . She just blurted it at me. She knew, of course, that you were a great friend of mine, and of Sylvia Elliott's, and that you were a man of honor, a gentleman. She took pains to repeat that, several times. But she wondered, she said, 'You know I'm an old woman,' she said, and God knows, she the truth for once in her life. She wondered, the dear old soul, whether you had realized that with a young, innocent girl like Sylvia—And then it came again, like a refrain; she kept saying it, she must have said it a dozen times, 'I am an old woman, you know,' but she wondered, the old beast, whether you could really perceive the seriousness of it, the woeful consequences of toying with the affections of an 'innocent girl.' You know how such an old woman can say it so it becomes almost an insult. Good God, even the worst of us have a pride in taking the of such a girl for granted, but such an old cat can to use the term with the most insidious . Why the devil do our absurd rules of conduct prevent one from kicking an old beast like that. I felt like doing it more than I've ever done it with respect to any man. But there I must stand, , with a teacup waving in my hand, with a show of courtesy, while she on. You know, it strikes me that such an absolutely useless old woman, an on earth, with no apparent purpose than that of making it a worse place to live in for all the rest of us, can, while employing all the ordinary polite phraseology of , produce more of an [Pg 81]effect of the most vicious than can the most common harlot or the roughest obscenity of a salt-water second mate. By the gods, it seems to me——"
 
"Yes, and when you get through cussing old lady Tinker, I'd be obliged to know what the deuce it was all about." Generally Kent enjoyed Karsten's vivid circumambience, but now it seemed to him almost irritatingly studied, as if the other were playing him, like a fish. "Get on with your tale." He felt that the elusive thing, the explanation which he had been heaven and earth for, was at last within hand's reach.
 
"Yes, of course, I beg your pardon. Well, the long and the short of it was that the old girl had been informed that you had not told—that you had taken pains not to tell, was the way she put it, with that sickly, , leering smile which she affects—that you were married. Oh, yes, she had just heard of it. And I was a friend of yours, and didn't I think that we older people—the smile again—just like that, she and I in the same category, hand in hand—I'd given a thousand for the privilege of heaving my tea in her face, hot tea—but would it not be best if you were spoken to about it, given a hint, though—you could see the satisfaction she got from spitting forth the full load of she had been from the start—she was happy to know that Miss Elliott had been informed, informed, from a reliable source, most reliable, in fact, from the very source from which she, herself, had her information.
 
"And then she let me go. It must have seemed a good day's work to her, letting loose that bit of trouble on the world. I can imagine her sitting at home now, with her cat, or her parrot or whatever she has got, and turning that bit of over[Pg 82] in her mind, cocking her head on one side and scheming how she may elaborate on it, add a few details, touches, and where she may carry her tale to-morrow where it may have the most effect. And, by the way, I wondered at the time who her source of information might be, and it struck me—she had just been sitting with that red-headed Wilson girl from the American Company, the two of them with their heads together thick as thieves—I was wondering whether she might not be the serpent. Do you know her?"
 
So that was it. For the moment Kent was confused by a clash of emotions; relief that, petty as the whole thing was, he at least knew now the exact state of affairs, had gained a foothold whence he might find his way out of the of uncertainty—and then, on the other hand, the , spiteful of that girl, that Wilson individual. Flashed into his mind the incident at the dance on board the Tenyo Maru, and his intuitive premonition that from the incidentally aroused enmity of this woman would come eventually a venomous sting of .
 
Oh, the damned——cat. He felt that he had never so absolutely , utterly a woman. "Yes, I know her. I chanced—she was such a wantonly beast—to offend her on the Tenyo. Karsten, for what inscrutable reason does Providence create such women and allow them to the earth?"
 
"And why not?" The other his shoulders. "The question arises with all kinds of women. Have you not at times, when you have fortuitously chanced on some woman, some seductive beauty who by the contact of a moment, glance of an eye, soft of a few words, smashes down whatever defenses you may have contrived against being in the net of the charm of women—and then, when quietude of mind, the state of being , at peace, normal, is, against your will, in spite of all you may do, abruptly shattered, and when you feel yourself again racked in the nervous tension of desire, passion, love, whatever you may call it—have you not then, Kent, found yourself asking God whatever can be His intention in letting loose upon earth women like that whose sole purpose seems to be to steal away from men what little chance they may have of being at peace? And as it is with that kind, I suppose it is with the others, the plain women, , malicious, mischief-making. What can be the purpose of their existence, unless it is to counterbalance those others, to add the other ingredient with which it has pleased Providence to contrive this madhouse of conflicting elements of humanity which make up this world."
 
But Kent was paying no attention. What the deuce could he do? He felt that now, when he had through fortuitous good fortune obtained the solution of the , his problem should have been almost solved; but, incongruously, he seemed to have made no headway whatever. Now, what should he do? His brain seemed to be void, to be incapable of functioning. The feeling that Karsten was watching him, was expecting him to pursue the subject, to carry on with it, made him feel uncomfortable, irritated him, as if Karsten had been curious.
 
"I wonder what the Cabinet intends to do about the Russian policy question." The remark escaped him almost involuntarily. He might as well, he felt, have suggested a as to what the weather was likely to be the day after to-morrow, anything, however . The fierce pudicity which causes a[Pg 84] man to shrink from having bared before the eyes of another man the intimate processes of his affections, made him wish, , to steer Karsten to some other subject. He repeated it , and even as he was speaking he felt the thereof. "Now, I wonder what the Cabinet will do?"
 
"Yes, what will the Cabinet do?" Karsten was leaning back in his chair, regarding him ironically. "Oh, hell!" He turned and went over to fill his pipe.
 
And, now he had driven Karsten away from the subject, it came to Kent that that was just what he did not want to do. His own brain was as as mud. Suddenly he was overcome with need for advice, sympathy, with the desire to discuss the thing, talk it over, to get a hand to swing his mind over the dead-center where it was now hanging.
 
"I wish I knew what to do." He blurted it out. Even that—to get the thing articulated, to place it in form of words—seemed to make an advance, to make it more concrete. "Now, what can I do to set myself right with Sylvia?"
 
"You love her?" Rather than a question, it seemed like the seeking of definite , for the purpose of establishing a for further logical treatment of the problem. Of course, that wouldn't do. The uneasy sense of , of making the very beginning with what—he could not it—was not true, irritated him. He snapped back, "No, of course, not." The harsh of his tone grated in his own ears. That was no way to talk to a man who was, after all, offering sympathy, a friend. He hastened to smooth it over.
 
"I like her. I am extremely fond of her. I think more of her than of any other woman, except——" He had been about to say "my wife," but he caught himself, disgusted at the facility with which he had[Pg 85] almost slid into smug . "I am fond of her, I say; I place every possible value on her friendship, yes, platonic friendship, if you please." He glared at Karsten, ready for fierce rejoinder, anticipating drawing of the mouth, incredulous gesture.
 
But Karsten let it pass. "And what have you yourself thought of doing?"
 
"But, hang it, man, that's just it. What the devil can I do? If she were a sweetheart of mine, if there had been any sort of a love relation, or even the possibility of the establishment of one, the potentiality existing when a man who is free, marriageable, has been on terms of fairly intimate friendship with a woman, then I might reasonably go to her and make some kind of explanation. But now, what can I do? I can't go up to her and say, 'Here, my dear, I am sorry if I've overlooked telling you that I'm married. I'm sorry if I've caused you to have expectations'—or just go up to her and remark, quite , 'Oh, by the way, you know I have a wife.' I fancy that if I had the wit, the experience that you have, for instance, I might manage to contrive some subtle means, something to set this thing straight, for, honestly—you'll have to take my word for it—what I have said about the whole thing being just friendship is absolutely and true."
 
"Just like with a man?"
 
"Yes, just like with a man."
 
"Then, that's the answer. Treat the affair just as if she were a man. If gossip had placed you in a false position with a man, you would go to him, wouldn't you, and have a straight talk with him? Why can't you give a woman, a woman whom you think so much of, credit for having as much broadmindedness, intelligence, as a man? You hint about my experience with women, about . Listen, if you will take [Pg 86]advice from the depths of my ignorance, I will tell you one thing—and it is something that I was stupid enough not to discover for years—the sort of thing that is so obvious that you pass right over it without seeing it—which is that with women, at least the right sort of women, the best course, the only sensible course, is to tell them the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. To some men, those who think that in with women one requires some intricate means, that would seem the very of , but it is, I am earnestly convinced, the one and only way."
 
Yes, it sounded easy. He , turned the suggestion over and over. The theory seemed all right, but when he came to translate it into action, when he came to think of how he would approach her, how he would open the subject, what he would say, it became utterly , impossible.
 
Karsten read his mind. "Yes, I know that it is easy to give advice in such matters and quite another thing to carry out the suggestion. But the only thing for you to do is to keep turning the thing over in your mind, familiarize yourself with the idea. Then, gradually, as the strangeness thereof wears away, when it no longer your brain with the impact of something , , you will find it becoming more rational to you. Eventually you may find that working out the thing becomes fairly natural, even easy. What is there about it that sticks you, anyway?"
 
"Blessed if I know; no one particular point, the whole thing more or less. I know how I myself have always been able to see just what the other chap should do, how it has irritated me often to see some fellow pursue an absolutely foolish course with respect to some woman, doing exactly what he shouldn't do, [Pg 87]purblind to the absolutely obvious. I have felt like taking him by the shoulder and saying, 'Here, Tom, Dick, or Bill, or whoever you may be, can't you see, you fool, that what this particular girl wants is this, that, or the other. It is like watching a chess game. The sees the approaching mate much sooner than the man who is playing the game. And in this kind of a thing another can't possibly see into, or appreciate just what is going on in the other chap's mind; estimate the fine , the super-delicate emotional so imperceptible that the man himself can only barely feel them without being able to them. And, for one thing, I think just one of the flaws in your theory is that the are not altogether well taken. You say, 'If the relation is just like that of man with man, then treat it like that.' And in a way it is; but then again, in another way it isn't. It can't be. With a man the idea of sex relation is necessarily absent, but with a woman, even when neither has it in mind at all, it cannot be avoided altogether, ignored. Take this case. I'm sure that I never thought of it. In fact, I'm sure that she never thought of it either. The very circumstance that quite likely I never did mention my wife, that I've not the slightest recollection whether I ever did so or not, shows, doesn't it, that my mind was entirely free from the idea. So, with a man, there would be no problem at all; but with a woman, with Sylvia, no matter how delicately I approach the matter, the suggestion must come into evidence that one fears, one thinks, that she must, to some extent at least, have had in mind the fact that she is a woman and I a man. It is virtually as if one said, 'Here, I'm afraid that you may not be quite clear that this is a friendly relation, that sex doesn't enter into it.' Damn it, I can't express the thought without [Pg 88]getting it into phrases that are blunt, clumsy; but you get the idea, don't you? I'm hanged if I can see how I could do it without becoming insulting.
 
"And then there's another thing, something that really hurts me more than any other phase of it all, and that is, Why should a girl like Sylvia, clean, sweet-minded, sensible, be by a thing like that? It is almost as if she, in fact, did suspect me of having really had in the back of my mind all the time some such insidious intention. And still, I am absolutely sure that she cannot have. By the gods, Karsten, the ways of women are something absolutely inscrutable to me."
 
"Oh, that's simple enough. It takes no mysterious knowledge of sex to explain that. Use your common sense, man. I'll admit that that struck me also, for a moment, and I was a bit disappointed in her; but, if you reason for a moment, it is plain enough. It's not that, not with Sylvia. It is nothing to her whether you mentioned your wife or not, whether you have a wife or not. She's not the kind of a girl who looks upon every male who is fortuitously thrown in her way as a potential husband, whose entire scheme of existence is bound up in the idea of ensnaring a provider. And I'm sure that she cannot believe that you had any in mind. Trust a woman for that, especially one so delicately constituted as Sylvia. And even the most stupid ones, any woman, since it is part of the very essence of being a woman, knows instinctively, by intuition, when the sex element, however subtly, is about. No, what has affected Sylvia, the reason why she keeps you at arm's length, is the manner in which the thing has been presented to her. Can't you imagine the insidious, slimy suggestiveness of that Wilson individual, coming to her with her, 'You really ought to[Pg 89] know, my dear'; how the mere idea must have been to her that any one, the Wilson thing, all the rest of the gossips, were turning this thing over and over on their salacious tongues, this innocent, patently clean relation existing between her and you. It must have been immeasurably offensive to her, intolerable. Put yourself in her place for a moment. Probably she may have been as reluctant as you are to give up this pleasant friendship. But what could she do? Being a woman, hedged in by the myriad conventions which tie up a woman's freedom of action much more than they do a man's, she'd find herself in an even more difficult position than that which you are in and which puzzles you so. No, old man, that's all plain enough; and if you find that you can't bring yourself to take the bull by the horns and talk it out with her, why, the only thing you can do is to let the thing rest for the time being. Neither seek her nor evade her. Don't increase her difficulties by asking her to go about with you; to a girl so essentially honest and honorable it must be extremely annoying to be forced to resort to the small lies, the petty prevarications of convention, to invent excuses—but don't evade her either. Be as courteous, friendly and frank as ever, and, above all, be natural. As time passes the gossips will find other victims and eventually you can, if you are careful, tactful, drift back into the old relation. Yes, it's rotten, isn't it, that in this world such damnable machinations as breaking up a clean, beautiful relation as that between you and Sylvia can be possible, and that it can be carried out , in the name of purity, of . By the gods, I think at times that if the prudes were less busy, the world might be a much cleaner place to live in."
 
Karsten was right. Kent felt an intense gratitude[Pg 90] to him for having thus surely, by the incontrovertible of plain sense, the doubt that had him, strive as he might against it, about Sylvia. It placed the whole situation in a much better light. Sylvia was all right. The essence of the relation between them had not been vitiated. All this was but the disturbing echo of something from outside, annoying, , but in the end surely ineffectual. So he would follow Karsten's advice. Everything would come out all right.
 
She had brought to the window the tall bamboo cage, had opened the tiny gate of intricately interwoven strips. All about her stood trunks and boxes. From the back came the of the carters carrying stuff out to the cart. She had waited with this to the very last. Now she stood back, watching the as it about on the bottom of the cage, eyeing the opened door. She had often been disturbed by the thought that she should not keep this bird a prisoner; but she had been assured that it had been born in , that it would prefer the comfortable life, protected behind the slender bamboo bars. Now, it seemed as if it really did. It was in no hurry to grasp at freedom.
 
The bird hopped up into the opening and sat, cocking its head, as if in doubt, peering into the world before it. Now, what would it do; would it really be happier in the protection of , or would it have the courage to grasp the freedom of unknown distances?
 
Unknown distances! She felt that she herself was uneasily uncertain, tremulous at the idea of setting behind her the small world into which she had fitted herself so agreeably. She was cowardly, like the bird, then, not venturesome enough to face the unknown.[Pg 91] No, it was not that. She must be frank with herself; her lay in not daring to remain; and, moreover, she was not honestly to Kent. The suggestion of the Wilson creature, the mere of her making such an insinuation, had dumbfounded her. Of course, she had known always—so long as she had known him; on board the Tenyo—that he was married. She could not even remember whether he had told her, had ever mentioned it, or whether she had come to know from an source, ship's gossip. It had been a matter of no moment whatever, utterly inconsequential. And to him it must have been inconsequential too; a thing which had no bearing whatever on their relation. The effrontery of this woman, and of the others, all those who, she had said, were now whispering among themselves about them. She had smiled at her assurance that she had known, that it was a matter of no consequence one way or the other, the incredulous smile, updrawn brows, that was an insult in itself. And then the hard shamelessness with which she had tried to pursue the matter, to gain more pabulum for gossip; endeavoring to establish a of which was entirely inexistent, she had hoped, she said, , that she did not really love him, that this would not hurt her. Sylvia might have taken her by the hair, dragged her forth, thrown her out, her fierce desire for methods of combat, to this insulting female into tatters, had surprised her. The intense , the nervous bewildered casting about for escape, had left her trembling, white.
 
And when she had finally gotten rid of the woman somehow, and had sat down to compose herself to think, she had been confused, bewildered, unable to seize upon some starting point from which to develop a line of thought. Instinctively she wanted to hide, to[Pg 92] shelter herself in some place where all this foulness could not reach her, to escape. It had always been her intention to wander on beyond Japan, to grapple with new landscapes, new colors, feathery palm swaying beneath the stars, the iridescent of the tropics. She had already long overstayed the time she had originally to devote to Japan. She had found so much more material than she had expected, and—yes, of course, if she were to think this thing out, she must be entirely honest, probe into herself with the knife no matter how she might shrink—yes, the truth was that she had not wished to abandon her friendship with Kent. Yes, friendship. It had been just that, only that. That, at least, she might say with absolute truth. True, there had been moments where the thought had come to her that if he had been free, their relation might have been enhanced, vivified by the light of romance. She had even—she was going to have this thing out with herself, go to the very most intimate essence thereof—yes, there had been a time when she had wondered what was really the relation between Kent and his wife; was there not a possibility that freedom might come to him? But she had put the thought behind her, ashamed, disgusted with herself that she could thus be to gaining a love which was the rightful property of another, affection which belonged rightfully to that other woman. So, even though it was evident that the day might come when the barrier might be removed, she had refused to consider the possibility, as an unworthy thought. The line between considering the potentiality and wishing that it might be brought about was too fine. And now that she had gotten past all that, and their relation had crystallized safely on a firmly constructed foundation, she was forced to leave it all. But[Pg 93] was it not cowardly thus to concede victory to the mischief , to desert Kent? Would it not be cleaner, more to remain, stick it out. She wished she were strong enough to stay, to continue, , the relation, safe in her knowledge that not the slightest suspicion of a thought of sex entered into the minds of Kent and herself. And still, there was no escape from the certainty that the thought could not be ignored; the gossips had injected it. She must always wonder whether Kent had heard what they thought. He must wonder whether she had. They had soiled their friendship with the foulness of their insinuating suggestion. No matter how she and Kent might try to it from their minds, some faint trace, some ineradicable smudge must remain.
 
The bird was about on the window sill, lifting its wings in little tentative flaps, restless, fluttering in indecision. She stepped up to it. Why didn't the silly little thing have the initiative to make the break into freedom, to grasp the promises of the new, unknown beyond. She watched it. "Oh, we are poor things, you and I. But, out you go." With her hand she pushed it gently out. It had to use its wings to save itself. It fluttered; then it stretched them out, strongly, boldly, circled slowly, then more surely, gained , rose higher and higher, disappeared in the blue.