about her age, was intending to make love to her. But how had he discovered her grand-daughter’s existence? For some while she pondered in great annoyance and perplexity, and at last answered prudently with a poem in which she said that ‘he who was but spending a night upon a traveller’s dewy bed could know little of those whose home was forever upon the cold moss of the hill-side.’ Thus she turned his poem to a harmless meaning. ‘Tell her,’ said Genji when the message was brought back, ‘that I am not accustomed to carry on conversations in this indirect manner. However shy she may be, I must ask her on this occasion to dispense with formalities and discuss this matter with me seriously!’ ‘How can he have been thus misinformed?’ said the nun, still thinking that Genji imagined her grand-daughter to be a grown-up woman. She was terrified at being suddenly commanded to appear before this illustrious personage and was wondering what excuse she would make. Her maids, however, were convinced that Genji would be grievously offended if she did not appear, and at last, coming out from the women’s chamber, she said to him: ‘Though I am no longer a young woman, I very much doubt whether I ought to come like this. But since you sent word that you have serious business to discuss with me, I could not refuse. …’ ‘Perhaps’ said Genji, ‘you will think my proposal both ill-timed and frivolous. I can only assure you that I mean it very seriously. Let Buddha judge…’ But here he broke off, intimidated by her age and gravity. ‘You have certainly chosen a very strange manner of communicating this proposal to me. But though you have not yet said what it is, I am sure you are quite in earnest about it.’ Thus encouraged, Genji continued: ‘I was deeply touched by the story of your long widowhood and of your daughter’s death. I too, like this poor child, was deprived in earliest
