loud murmurs of applause. Even the professional poets were deeply impressed, and it may well be imagined what pride the Emperor, to whom at times Genji was a source of consolation and delight, watched him upon such an occasion as this. Fujitsubo, when she allowed herself to glance in his direction, marvelled that even Kōkiden could find it in her heart to hate him. ‘It is because he is fond of me; there can be no other reason,’ she decided at last and the verse ‘Were I but a common mortal who now am gazing at the beauty of this flower, from its sweet petals not long should I withhold the dew of love,’ framed itself on her lips, though she dared not utter it aloud.
It was now very late and the banquet was over. The guests had scattered. The Empress and the Heir Apparent had both returned to the Palace—all was still. The moon had risen very bright and clear, and Genji, heated with wine, could not bear to quit so lovely a scene. The people at the Palace were probably all plunged in a heavy sleep. On such a night it was not impossible that some careless person might have left some door unfastened, some shutter unbarred. Cautiously and stealthily he crept towards Fujitsubo’s apartments and inspected them. Every bolt was fast. He sighed; here there was evidently nothing to be done. He was passing the loggia of Kōkiden’s palace when he noticed that the shutters of the third arch were not drawn. After the banquet Kōkiden herself had gone straight to the Emperor’s rooms. There did not seem to be anyone about. A door leading from the loggia into the house was standing open, but he could hear no sound within. ‘It is under just such circumstances as this that one is apt to drift into compromising situations,’ thought Genji. Nevertheless he climbed quietly on to the balustrade and peeped. Every one must be asleep. But no; a very agreeable young voice with an intonation which was cer-
