that for my part I should have been in a terrible fright. If only our little lady were nearer to his age!’ Shōnagon, still mistrustful, sat quite close to Genji all the while.
At last the wind began to drop. The night was far spent; but his return at such an hour would cause no surprise! ‘She has become so dear to me,’ said Genji, ‘that, above all at this sad time in her life, I am loath to leave her even for a few short hours. I think I shall put her somewhere where I can see her whenever I wish. I wonder that she is not frightened to live in such a place as this.’ ‘I think her father spoke of coming to fetch her,’ said Shōnagon; ‘but that is not likely to be till the Forty-nine Days are up.’ ‘It would of course under ordinary circumstances be natural that her father should look after her,’ admitted Genji; ‘but as she has been brought up entirely by someone else she has no more reason to care for him than for me. And though I have known her so short a time, I am certainly far fonder of her than her father can possibly be.’ So saying he stroked the child’s hair and then reluctantly, with many backward glances, left the room. There was now a heavy white fog, and hoar-frost lay thick on the grass. Suddenly he found himself wishing that it were a real love-affair, and he became very depressed. It occurred to him that on his way home he would pass by a certain house which he had once familiarly frequented. He knocked at the door, but no one answered. He then ordered one of his servants who had a strong voice to recite the following lines: ‘By my Sister’s gate though morning fog makes all the world still dark as night, I could not fail to pause.’ When this had been sung twice, the lady sent an impertinent coxcomb of a valet to the door, who having recited the poem ‘If you disliked the hedge of fog that lies about this place, a gate of crazy wicker would not keep you standing in the street,’ at once went back again
