In answer to the summons an old armah brought tea and little rice
cakes which O Hara San dispensed with great dignity and
seriousness. She drank innumerable cupfuls while Craven took three
or four to please her and then lit a cigarette. He smoked in
silence watching the dainty little kneeling figure, following the
quick movements of her hands as she manipulated the fragile china
on the low stool before her, the restraint she imposed upon
herself as she struggled with the excited happiness that
manifested itself in the rapid heaving of her bosom, and the
transient smile on her lips, and a heavy frown gathered on his
face. She looked up suddenly, the tiny cup poised in her hand
midway to her mouth.

"You happy in Tokio?"

"Yes."

It was not the answer for which she had hoped and her eyes
dropped at the curt monosyllable. She put the cup back on the
tray and folded her hands in her lap with a faint little sigh
of disappointment, her head drooping pensively. Craven knew
instinctively that he had hurt her and hated himself. It was like
striking a child. But presently she looked up again and gazed at
him soberly, wrinkling her forehead in unconscious imitation of
his.

"O Hara San very bad selfish girl. Hoping you very _un_happy
in Tokio," she said contritely.

He laughed at the naive confession and the gloom vanished from his