"You happy in Tokio?"
"Yes."
It was not the answer for which she had hoped and her eyes dropped at the curt monosyllable. She put the cup back on the tray and folded her hands in her lap with a faint little sigh of disappointment, her head drooping pensively. Craven knew instinctively that he had hurt her and hated himself. It was like striking a child. But presently she looked up again and gazed at him soberly, wrinkling her forehead in unconscious imitation of his.
"O Hara San very bad selfish girl. Hoping you very unhappy in Tokio," she said contritely.
He laughed at the naive confession and the gloom vanished from his face as he stood up, his long limbs cramped with the uncongenial attitude.
"What have you been doing while I was away?" he asked, crossing the room to look at a new kakemono on the wall.
She flitted away silently and returned in a few moments carrying a small panel. She put it into his hands, drawing near to him within the arm he slipped round her and slanted her head against him, waiting for his criticism with the innate patience of her race.
Craven looked long at the painting. It was a study of a solitary fir tree, growing at the edge of a cliff--wind-swept, rugged. The high precipice on which it stood was only suggested and far below there was a hint of boundless ocean--foam-crested.
It was the tree that gripped attention--a lonely outpost, clinging doggedly to its jutting headland, rearing its head proudly in its isolation; the wind seemed to rustle through its branches, its gnarled trunk showed rough and weather-beaten. It was a poem of loneliness and strength.
At last Craven laid it down carefully, and gathering up the slender clasped hands, kissed them silently. The mute homage was more to her than words. The colour rushed to her cheeks and her eyes devoured his face almost hungrily.
"You like it?" she whispered wistfully.
"Like it?" he echoed, "Gad! little girl, it's wonderful. It's more than a fir tree--it's power, tenacity, independence. I know that all your work is symbolical to you. What does the tree mean--Japan?"
She turned her head away, the flush deepening in her cheeks, her fingers gripping his.
"It means--more to me than Japan," she murmured. "More to me than life--it means--you," she added almost inaudibly.
He swept her up into his arms and carrying her out on to the verandah, dropped into a big cane chair that was a concession to his western limbs.