Hall. ‘Here she is,’ said Tō no Chūjō, leading the boy towards the curtain-of-state behind which Kumoi was now sitting. ‘You see she is a little shy of you and has taken refuge behind her curtains.’ And then looking at Yūgiri: ‘I don’t believe all this reading is suiting you. Your father himself agrees with me; I know that learning easily becomes a useless and tedious thing if pushed beyond a reasonable point. However, in your case he must have had some particular reason for supposing that academic honours would be useful. I do not know what was in his mind, but be that as it may, I am sure it is bad for you to be bending all day over your books!’ And again: ‘I am sure that you ought sometimes to have a change. Come now, play a tune on my flute. Your masters can have no objection to that, for is not the flute itself the subject of a hundred antique and learned stories?’ Yūgiri took the flute and played a tune or two with a certain boyish faltering, but with very agreeable effect. The zitherns were laid aside and while Chūjō beat the measure softly with his hands, Yūgiri sang to them the old ballad ‘Shall I wear my flowered dress?’ ‘This is just the sort of concert that Genji so much enjoys,’ said Tō no Chūjō, ‘and that is why he is always trying to get free from the ties of business. Nor do I blame him; for the world is an unpleasant place at best, and surely one might as well spend one’s time doing what one likes, instead of toiling day after day at things that do not interest one in the least.’
He passed round the wine-flagon, and as it was now getting dark, the great lamp was brought in, soon followed by supper. When the meal was over, Tō no Chūjō sent Lady Kumoi back to her room. It did not escape the notice of Princess Ōmiya’s gentlewomen that Chūjō was anxious to keep Yūgiri and his little daughter as far as possible apart. ‘Why, he has sent her away,’ they whispered, ‘because he
