The Shadow of the East | Page 6

E.M. Hull
careful.

Craven did not move.
"Try again, O Hara San."
A low bubble of girlish laughter rippled out.
"Please to come in, Bar-ree."
He turned slowly, looking bigger than ever by contrast with the slender
little Japanese girl who faced him. She was barely seventeen, dainty
and fragile as a porcelain figure, wholly in keeping with her exquisite
setting and yet the flush on her cheeks--free from the thick disfiguring
white paste used by the women of her country--and the vivid animation
of her face were oddly occidental, and the eyes raised so eagerly to
Craven's were as grey as his own.
He held out his arms and she fluttered into them with a little breathless
murmur, clinging to him passionately.
"Little O Hara San," he said gently as she pressed closer to him. He
tilted her head, stooping to kiss the tiny mouth that trembled at the
touch of his lips. She closed her eyes and he felt an almost convulsive
shudder shake her.
"Have you missed me, O Hara San?" "It is a thousand moons since you
are gone," she whispered unsteadily.
"Are you glad to see me?"
Her grey eyes opened suddenly with a look of utter content and
happiness.
"You know, Bar-ree. Oh, Bar-ree!"
His face clouded, the teasing word that rose to his lips died away
unspoken and he pressed her head against him almost roughly to hide
the look of trusting devotion that suddenly hurt him. For a few
moments she lay still, then slipped free of his arms and stood before
him, swaying slightly from side to side, her hands busily patting her

hair into order and smiling up at him happily.
"Being very rude. Forgetting honourable hospitality. You please
forgive?"
She backed a few steps toward the doorway and her pliant figure bent
for an instant in the prescribed form of Japanese courtesy and salutation.
Then she clasped both hands together with a little cry of dismay. "Oh,
so sorree," she murmured in contrition, "forgot honourable lord
forbidding that."
"Your honourable lord will beat you with a very big stick if you forget
again," said Craven laughing as he followed her into the little room. O
Hara San pouted her scarlet lips at him and laughed softly as she
subsided on to a mat on the floor and clapped her hands. Craven sat
down opposite her more slowly. In spite of the months he had spent in
Japan he still found it difficult to adapt his long legs to the national
attitude.
In answer to the summons an old armah brought tea and little rice cakes
which O Hara San dispensed with great dignity and seriousness. She
drank innumerable cupfuls while Craven took three or four to please
her and then lit a cigarette. He smoked in silence watching the dainty
little kneeling figure, following the quick movements of her hands as
she manipulated the fragile china on the low stool before her, the
restraint she imposed upon herself as she struggled with the excited
happiness that manifested itself in the rapid heaving of her bosom, and
the transient smile on her lips, and a heavy frown gathered on his face.
She looked up suddenly, the tiny cup poised in her hand midway to her
mouth.
"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 _un_happy 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
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