As I cross the floor of my bedroom, and light the absurd little lamp near my apology for a couch, the dry boards of the thin flooring creak noisily and drearily beneath my tread. Some of the youthful fear of darkness is revived within me by the awful silence and the fitful flicker of my lamp. The little red-and-blue tortoises painted on the paper panels near the window seem to be coming to life and crawling about.
A glance out of the window as I throw off the last of my garments does not reassure me. Quite the reverse. It is so black outside. So I close the casement, and turn in sadly.
I lie thinking for some time in the dark, and almost insensibly my thoughts revert to our supper at the chaya of “A Thousand Lights” and to Kotmasu’s friend.
A bright idea presents itself, solving my longing and loneliness.
It is Miss Hyacinth I want, and such a thing should not be impossible—in Japan.
