it was a dull season for news. from san francisco they had cabled him to "hold down." a nation-wide strike in america and one of these futile european reparations conferences were filling the papers at home, leaving scant space for oriental matters. anyway, nothing was happening. his idleness irked him. everything seemed to have slipped into a dull, wearisome routine. he rebelled at it—anything for a bit of excitement of some kind, any kind. the thought came to him, kept recurring insistently, that now was time to look about a little, to experiment with karsten's advice. after all, why not? was he not missing something, an interesting and pleasing phase of life in the orient, one that they all unanimously described as delectable, from pierre loti on. even the warning contained in the episode between karsten and jun-san was losing its significance. at home matters had slipped back into the old, daily routine, as if nothing had happened. through the day she was always in the main house, watching with solicitous care to meet karsten's wants, retiring only when he had retired, to her own house, the bower which karsten had had built for her when their love was young. as he looked back at it, it seemed to him that probably the whole thing had been just a little melodramatic; they had been overwrought, excited. karsten had always been super-sensitive, too nervously susceptible to his own emotions; the dramatic instinct, no doubt. and then jun-san. well, they were not all like her. these international adventures were often, generally indeed, colored by humor rather than by tragedy.

he recalled the predicament, a few weeks ago, of carruthers, who had amused his group of friends with his agitated alarm at his grotesque predicament. a geisha had unexpectedly, much to his pleased surprise, sent a note to him. she had summoned him, and he had answered, quickly enough, in a spirit of curiosity. later it had developed that she thought he looked like douglas fairbanks, her favorite motion-picture hero. prosaic carruthers, solemnly horse-faced, the practical machinery salesman from pittsburgh—they had all been highly amused at the absurdity. the later developments had given them still more and even greater delight.

carruthers had taken a house in one of the suburbs in preparation for the arrival of his wife and drove of children. but he had thought that he might as well make use of the opportunity, his last fling of freedom. so he had invited her there, and she had come, and she had stayed, and when the wife was due in but a few days, she had still stayed, had refused to leave. carruthers had been frantic. it had delighted them. five days more—and she held the fort. three days only. he had rushed from one to the other to help him out, give him advice, take the girl away, steal her from him, anything. "for god's sake, fellows, this is no joke. take her off my hands, somebody." it had tickled them. "but how, carruthers? be sensible. we don't look like douglas fairbanks." it had been entrancingly amusing. despairingly he had given the details. "the day after to-morrow, and she won't get out. i've told her my wife is coming, my wife. and she says she loves me. she don't care. if my wife comes, she will stay as my mekake, my concubine. imagine me introducing: mrs. carruthers, my concubine—just like that! no, by cæsar, it's gone beyond a joke. you've got to help me out." by jove, it had[pg 112] been a scream, till the very last. but on the last day of grace they had rid him of the lady. it had not been so easy, either. it had taken all the powers of the accomplished nishimura to move her. he was useful, as he claimed. and carruthers had had to pay her geisha license for a month. he looked upon it as a joke now; rather enjoyed telling the story. and the girl, she had taken no hurt, either. nishimura said that she had spread the glad tidings all over shimbashi. there was only fun, amusement, in an episode like that, at least if one were single, and then a little excitement. life was becoming unbearably humdrum.

he was gradually becoming better acquainted with his geisha neighbor. toshi-san she said her name was, and he was introduced to the duenna, her "mother" she called her, and to her maid, and to her doll, mitsuko-san. in the morning, at about ten o'clock, when she opened the shoji to look at the weather, they often chatted. she was a pretty, vivacious little thing, wholly adorable, and they knew how to look after themselves, these geisha. so why not?

sometimes, in the afternoon, before she began her caterwauling samisen practice, she would play for him a few phonograph pieces, "rigoletto," the dvořák "humoresque," the things which it seemed all tokyo was fond of. he did not understand much about music, still it seemed to him a pity if this country, these people, who had until now acquired fair taste through the fortunate absence of trashy, ephemeral rubbish, should now fall victims to the various "blues" and "bells" of fox-trot repertoires.

she evidently enjoyed the music; that was not pose. her face beamed when she would announce the acquisition of a new record. "i have got 'ave malia.' it goes like that." she tried a high note, amusingly dissonant, in her typical geisha falsetto. "you should[pg 113] see my phonograph. it is high, like that," she held her hand to the height of her bosom.

it seemed a chance. "all right, let me see it. i'd like to. when?"

but she was horrified. no, certainly not. of course, he could not come to her house. the obstacle made him obstinate.

"all right, then. i'll go to the waiting-house over there and send for you. then you'll have to come, won't you?"

"yes, maybe; but if i come i'll bring my mother." she pointed her tongue at him, just an infinitesimal tip, pink between white teeth, laughed, and was gone.

it seemed absurd. the girl was a geisha; it was her business to entertain guests, dance and sing for them at least, even if she apparently must reserve the favors of affection for that police commissioner, whose presence one sensed, obscure in the background, through the phonograph, the ever multiplying new records, new jewelry, all evidently offerings from him.

"i don't quite get it all. surely she doesn't drag that stage property mother of hers about wherever she has guests. can you explain?" he asked karsten.

"well, first of all, of course, you can't visit a geisha in her own house; at least, old man, it is not etiquette, it isn't done. you must meet them in the waiting-houses. if they didn't the waiting-houses would lose their commissions and would boycott the geisha. and the geisha guild would cause trouble. it is with that as with everything else in japan, as in business where there must always be a half dozen middlemen between producer and consumer. of course, you might take her on a picnic, if she consents, but i wouldn't, if i were you. japan is changing. we are getting away from the days of loti. be discreet, anyway. and then it's expensive. you have to pay a tremendous fee[pg 114] even for just the pleasure of helping her pick flowers, or sea shells, or whatever it might be, and she will have you buy a cartload of souvenirs for herself, and the mother, and the maid, and her friends, and the cat, for all i know. anyway, remember the police commissioner. she would probably not dare."

so the matter did not progress. they chatted almost every day, across the alley, but she smiled at his invitations, enjoyed teasing him. it seemed an impasse.

he had stayed late at the foreign office, one afternoon, talking with young kikuchi. they decided to dine together, but kikuchi had an engagement and left early. kent did not feel like going home. a gorgeously brilliant full moon, supernaturally large, was rising ponderously over the shiba park trees. it brought out tokyo to best advantage. in the shimmering half-light the crude modernisms, the telephone poles, wires, irritating newfangled architecture, receded faded away, and one might let the eye see only typical japan, the opaquely lighted shoji, curved rooftrees. he had had a few cocktails, felt titillating with effervescent life, adventurous under the glamor of the moon, anticipatingly ready and eager for something out of the ordinary, some adventure. it might lurk anywhere, inside shoji, in dark gateways. he strolled through the geisha quarter, hoping that from some miniature garden, glimpsed through ornate gate, might stretch towards him white hands, might come some soft seductive voice. he knew that it was utterly unlikely, that, did he desire adventure, he must take the initiative. but he did not wish to do that. it would spoil just that element of chance, casual hazard of fortune, that was essential. he felt that somehow it was hovering close at hand, would come to-night, out of the silver-blue. his vagrant, erratic mood, the[pg 115] moon, the whispering mystery of coyly self-effacive tokyo, gave him an odd feeling as if the entire great city were a slily demure courtesan, enigmatically but encouragingly smiling upon him.

but it seemed all to be a great, fantastic mockery. desire, mood, setting, romantic, inviting adventure, were all there, but as he passed along, expectantly turning this corner, then the next, ever anticipatory, hopeful that now it would come—nothing came. the alleys were almost deserted. a geisha passed him, tripping along with evident set destination, followed by her little maid clasping long-necked silk-wrapped samisen, but she was answering the call of some one else, some male waiting on the zabuton somewhere. fate was concerned with others, was busy elsewhere. his walk became disappointing, tedious. now he was near his office. he had run out of tobacco. he went upstairs. it was the first time he had been there at night. his glance strayed across to toshi-san's window. it was dark. where might she be; entertaining some one, possibly that damned commissioner.

the moonlight was glorious. he remembered that nishimura had said that the flat roof of the house was a fine place for tsuki-mi, viewing the moon, the favorite japanese pastime which even the most prosaic seemed to appreciate. why not take a look; the night was still young. he climbed up the narrow ladder-like staircase, pushed a sliding cover and climbed out on the roof. loose planks had been placed to form a crude flooring. he squatted on them, and looked about, over the picturesque tiled roofs, the small platforms built on them for clothes drying and, more romantically, tsuki-mi.

on the platform just opposite something moved, took shape of a woman. he bent forward to see more closely.

"good-evening, kent-san. do you like the moon view?"

it was toshi-san, the adventure at last. he would not let it slip from him. she was entrancing in the moonlight, ethereal as some fantastic fairy-land picture. from where he sat the moon was almost directly behind her. an inspiration came to him and he moved a little, bringing the great, yellow orb directly in line behind her, so that her head was silhouetted against it, high helmet-like coiffure standing out black, sharply contoured, the glowing disk against her profile like a luminous halo—a preposterous image, a geisha with a halo. surely this was a night of witchery!

the opportunity had come. he jumped to his feet, the loose boards rattling under him. it gave him an idea; he picked up one of them and placed it as a bridge over the space between the two platforms. she had risen also, stood looking over to him, hands grasping the low railing. what on earth was this mad foreigner about to do now?

he tested the plank with his foot. "o-toshi-san. i am coming over to you."

"you mustn't. abunai. take care." but as she spoke she held out her hands towards him, to assist him, receive him. romance at last. what would his prosaic san francisco friends say, could they see him here, under the full moon, flitting about among the tokyo housetops, into the arms of this flower-like japanese girl, just a few feet away. he glanced down into the narrow chasm of the alley below, its darkness riven here and there by shafts of light from the windows. they would not know, these people down there, no one would know, of this secret meeting, his and o-toshi-san's. this was the thing he had sought, unpremeditated, a casual stroke of good fortune, with the pleasant sense of venturing into the unknown.

it was easy. a step, and he had crossed, felt her arms about him solicitously, as she anxiously sought to drag him to safety. she indicated the zabuton on which she had been sitting, pale-green with a great crimson flower design. "please, sit down."

"oh, no, you must sit there. ladies first; that's foreign style, you know."

she laughed delightedly. "oh, how funny. i had heard that foreigners did like that to their women; but it is so queer, to have it happen to me, to oneself. still, you must sit there. you are an o-kyaku-san, a guest, you know."

"chigaimasen. it makes no difference." he forced her gently down on the cushions. "anyway, i am not just a kyaku-san, just like the others down there. i have come to you out of the night, dropped from the moon."

she laughed again, that same clear silver tone; he sensed a musical enjoyment from it. "it is just like a cinema picture, isn't it, your coming to me, like that. i am glad it happened to me; you are so adventurous, you foreigners, so different. i know how you do, from the cinema, but i always wanted to know for myself. yes, i am glad you are not just a guest."

"naze? why?"

"naze-demo," the equivalent to the white woman's "because." "i won't tell you now; maybe some day, by-and-by," she smiled mischievously. "now tell me about your women. i see them on the ginza sometimes, big, strong, beautiful. tell me, when you can have them, why do foreigners sometimes love us little, kitanai japanese girls?"

that absurd "kitanai" again! it was so inapposite, irritated him. he hastened to explain, to refute, trying to seek the terms which he thought might best appeal to this slight, fairy-like dream-picture, whose[pg 118] mode of thought, fashion of reasoning, was unknown, mysterious, to him. he felt his way, amused at the intricate, curious task.

"you know, a mountain is beautiful, but so is a flower. you may find your pleasure in the great, majestic beauty of fuji-san, and then, again," he seized her hand, "you may delight in the flower, in this little hand, delicate, warm, soft," he smoothed the slender fingers, "embodying in its delightful smallness the entire sum of infinite perfection."

she let her hand lie in his. he drew her closer so her slim body rested lightly against his, and as he did it he wondered, why she was so passive, offering no resistance, not even making a show of doing so? was it because it was all in her day's work, an easy surrender to careless handling, or mauling by clumsy, lustful paws of carousing guests? it took the glamor out of the thing, stripped the situation instantly of its air of light, ephemeral charm. how far did they go, these girls; at least, how far did this one go? he would soon find out. he threw both arms about her and drew her close into his clasp; but now she resisted, set both hands against his face. he was surprised at the strength of these slender arms. there could be no doubt of the genuineness of her resistance. she fought desperately to get away. he released her. she looked at him gravely, without anger, but just a bit disdainfully. "but you mustn't do that, behave just like a rough guest. i thought you were quiet. you must promise not to do that again. the hand, yes, and, if you promise, i will sit quite near you, yes; but no more."

he felt quite ashamed; still his curiosity had the better of him. was that the usual procedure, the favors usually granted the guests? he asked her, bluntly.

"oh, no." she placed her hand on his arm, looked up at him seriously, intently. "the hand, it doesn't matter. but i don't sit like that, so close, with others. you, you were a friend."

she seemed so ingenuous, the air of innocence was quaint, irresistible. he would have sworn that she told the truth—but what about the police commissioner? he felt that it was churlish, an unworthy thing; still he could not help asking: "but your police friend?"

she swept her hand outwards impatiently, as would she waft away something noxious, unpleasant. "so you've heard. but what of it. shikataganai, it can't be helped. why should you care; he has bought me, he gives me many fine things; but he is only an o-kyaku-san, after all—and you are a friend, so why should you care?"

she noted the surprise on his face, his amazement at this astonishing reasoning. "but don't you understand, one doesn't care for the man who is just a guest; it is a matter of business, but one doesn't love the o-kyaku-san, no matter what he gives, money, presents. the man who pays nothing, the friend, he's the one—the one whom one cares for. but, of course, you are a foreigner; you may know the hearts of your own women, but you don't know the hearts of geisha."

"no, how can i? tell me. teach me. come over here again. i shall be very quiet."

"then promise." she held her hand out to him, the little finger curved into a diminutive hook, took his hand and curved his finger in the same fashion, linked it into her own. "that's the way we promise. now, don't forget."

she gave him her hand naïvely and snuggled close to him. "you have been very rough, but i know that[pg 120] you don't know about japanese custom. so now i shall tell you what to do to make the geisha like you. you know when you act as you did just now, we don't like you. you must be kind, gentle. we don't like rough men, or restless ones, and the ones who laugh loudly at everything, or the ones who are over-sweet on first acquaintance. and we don't like the ones who brag about themselves and about their money, or who throw it about to show off, or the ones who are too dandified, or who chatter too much. but we like the man who is quiet, not too silent, but who talks pleasantly, and who doesn't boast, and who doesn't brag about experience with geisha. if you want a geisha to like you, don't be stingy, but don't spend over-much. be cheerful and be kind. that's why i like the foreigners in the cinema. and now i have taught you a lot, and you are very wise, and," she laughed up into his face, "next time you meet a geisha you know just how to win her."

he protested. he would use his knowledge only to win her; but she shook her head. no, it was impossible. and now it was late. she must go. she rose, bowed ceremoniously. he grasped her hand. just a moment; would she not meet him again? she could not tell; yes, she often came up here for tsuki-mi. she bowed again and disappeared down the stairway into the house.

after that he met her often, on the roof. as they became intimate, she told him that she would come whenever she was not engaged; but she was popular and he was often disappointed. it added to the fascination of the meetings, the constant uncertainty, enhanced the pleasure of being with her, listening to her grave, childish wisdom. he felt that he might easily come to care for her, that she was insinuating herself into his affection; that she might become the woman[pg 121] whom he was awaiting to come from somewhere, into his life. but while their friendship grew, and she talked more freely, confidently, and he felt himself gaining an intimate insight into this quaint, delicate little geisha soul, she maintained punctiliously the barrier of the first evening. carefully, with the most subtle caution, he endeavored to gain a little more, to draw her closer, but she was ever alert, baffled him quietly.

usually their talk was gay, and especially when her intuition, marvelously accurate, warned her of his restlessness, she held it so. but one evening when the night was dark, with only a few faint stars futilely scattered in the murk, he fancied that she was troubled. he could not see her face, but as he sat near her he could notice her bosom heave uneasily and sensed a trembling, nervous tension of her body. but she would tell him nothing; said little, pressed close to him, silently oppressed by her thoughts. what could be going on in that childishly troubled little geisha mind, behind that clear white forehead with its finely curved half-moon brows? he placed both arms about her cautiously, but she did not resist. the poor, dear, little girl! he wanted to hold her, help her, felt the instinct of protection, affection. "o-toshi-san, tell me what it is. i shall help you. can't you trust me a little, dearest? can't you care for me a little?"

she straightened in his arms, drew her head back, black eyes gazing deeply into his. then, suddenly, she threw both arms about him, clung to him convulsively, gaspingly, pressing her soft cheek against his. he moved a little so he faced her. "kiss me, o-toshi-san." she drew back her head a little, startled. "kiss me, in the foreign way. you are a foreigner's, now." he bent over to her, pressed his lips against her soft mouth. but it was only a faint response. "i must teach you to kiss, dear. come." again he kissed her, again and again, and gradually she responded, hot lips clung to his, as she trembled, clinging in his arms.

"i left behind a flower yet in bud; it weighs on my mind that it may blow without me."

a drunken guest was reeling from a waiting-house down the alley. she drew herself away. "it is late. i must go." she raised herself on her toes, framed his face between her hands, kissed him. "good-by, kent-san. good-by."

she was gone.

so it had come at last. the woman had come into his life. a geisha. now what would follow? what would be the arrangements? could he take her from the geisha house? where? the thought of the o-kyaku-san became suddenly intolerable. but just how should he proceed? confound his ignorance about such matters. he would ask karsten for advice, but first he wanted to see her again, to ask her what she wished to do. probably he would see her in her window, in the morning. anyway, he did not wish to reason, to fetter his thoughts with commonplace details. that could be done later. his mind reverted to the events of the hours just past, the amazingly unexpected good fortune, delight, which had come to him like a shooting star out of the dark. he let the images of recollection surge over him, envelop him. thank god, life would have some meaning, some of the high light of love venture to brighten the dimness of dull routine existence.

he barely noticed, as he entered the office building the next morning, a couple of hand-carts, piled high with boxes and bundles, moving from the alley. he ran up the stairs, glanced through the window. the shoji were open, but there was no sign of her. he seated himself at his desk to wait, noticed an envelope,[pg 123] a quaint flower-embossed thing, and opened it curiously. the missive was from toshi-san, written in kata-kana, the easy phonetic script which she knew he understood.

tame wo omoute

hara tate sosete

muri ni kayeshita

atode naku.

thinking only of his good,

i made him angry, sent him back

against our mutual wish,

and then i wept.

made him angry? what? the thought flashed on him, monstrously appalling. he called ishii. had the people opposite moved? yes, they had left early that morning. should he find out where? after a while he came back. yes, o-toshi-san had gone away, no one would tell him where.

so the adventure had ended, suddenly, as it had begun. why? what had been her reason? probably he would never know. the mysterious orient, yes, like an arabian nights tale, where the fairy vanished into vapor at the profaning touch of importunate hands.