Kimono | Page 9

do you think she is homesick sometimes for Japan?" said her
husband.
"Oh no," smiled Murata. The little wizened man was full of smiles.
"She left Japan when she was not two years old. She remembers
nothing at all."
"I think one day we shall go to Japan," said Geoffrey, "when we get
tired of Europe, you know. It is a wonderful country, I am told; and it
does not seem right that Asako should know nothing about it. Besides, I
should like to look into her affairs and find out about her investments."
Murata was staring at his yellow boots with an embarrassed air. It
suddenly struck the Englishman that he, Geoffrey Harrington, was
related to people who looked like that, and who now had the right to
call him cousin. He shivered.
"You can trust her lawyers," said the Japanese, "Mr. Ito is an old friend
of mine. You may be quite certain that Asako's money is safe."
"Oh yes, of course," assented Geoffrey, "but what exactly are her
investments? I think I ought to know."
Murata began to laugh nervously, as all Japanese do when embarrassed.
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, "but I do not know myself. The money has
been paid regularly for nearly twenty years; and I know the Fujinami
are very rich. Indeed, Captain Barrington, I do not think Asako would
like Japan. It was her father's last wish that she should never return
there."

"But why?" asked Geoffrey. He felt that Murata was keeping
something from him. The little man answered,--
"He thought that for a woman the life is more happy in Europe; he
wished Asako to forget altogether that she was Japanese."
"Yes, but now she is married and her future is fixed. She is not going
back permanently to Japan, but just to see the country. I think we
would both of us like to. People say it is a magnificent country."
"You are very kind," said Murata, "to speak so of my country. But the
foreign people who marry Japanese are happy if they stay in their own
country, and Japanese who marry foreigners are happy if they go away
from Japan. But if they stay in Japan they are not happy. The national
atmosphere in Japan is too strong for those people who are not
Japanese or are only half Japanese. They fade. Besides life in Japan is
very poor and rough. I do not like it myself."
Somehow Geoffrey could not accept these as being the real reasons. He
had never had a long talk with a Japanese man before; but he felt that if
they were all like that, so formal, so unnatural, so secretive, then he had
better keep out of the range of Asako's relatives.
He wondered what his wife really thought of the Muratas, and during
the return to their hotel, he asked,--
"Well, little girl, do you want to go back again and live at Auteuil?"
She shook her head.
"But it is nice to think you have always got an extra home in Paris, isn't
it?" he went on, fishing for an avowal that home was in his arms only, a
kind of conversation which was the wine of life to him at that period.
"No," she answered with a little shudder, "I don't call that home."
Geoffrey's conventionality was a little bit shocked at this lack of
affection; he was also disappointed at not getting exactly the expected

answer.
"Why, what was wrong with it?" he asked.
"Oh, it was not pretty or comfortable," she said, "they were so afraid to
spend money. When I wash my hands, they say, 'Do not use too much
soap; it is waste.'"
* * * * *
Asako was like a little prisoner released into the sunlight. She dreaded
the idea of being thrust back into darkness again.
In this new life of hers anything would have made her happy, that is to
say, anything new, anything given to her, anything good to eat or drink,
anything soft and shimmery to wear, anything--so long as her big
husband was with her. He was the most fascinating of all her novelties.
He was much nicer than Lady Everington; for he was not always saying,
"Don't," or making clever remarks, which she could not understand. He
gave her absolutely her own way, and everything that she admired. He
reminded her of an old Newfoundland dog who had been her slave
when she was a little girl.
He used to play with her as he would have played with a child,
watching her as she tried on her finery, hiding things for her to find,
holding them over her head and making her jump for them like a puppy,
arranging her ornaments for her in those continual private exhibitions