14

To~ no Chu~jo~ had not been much interested in the ceremonies, but now he was very eager indeed to see the girl. He arrived early. Aware of and grateful for all the trouble Genji had gone to, he thought it rather odd even so. Late in the evening he was admitted to his daughter's apartments. Refreshments were served. The lights were somewhat brighter than one might have expected, and the smallest detail was in careful order. The ritual did not permit more than a glimpse of his daughter, but he could hardly keep himself from staring openly as he bestowed the train.

“We shall not speak of things long over and done with,” said Genji, “and we would do well not to let the secret out quite yet. Please try to make it all seem as routine as possible.”

“I cannot thank you enough,” said To~no Chu~jo~, raising his cup. “There can be no precedent for such kindness. And yet I must register a brief complaint that you have kept the secret so long.

“Bitter, bitter, that the fisherfolk

So long have hidden the treasures of the sea.”

It was accompanied by an illustrative shedding of tears.

The company of two such splendid gentlemen had reduced Tamakazura to silence. The answering poem came from Genji:

“The fisherfolk refusing to take them in,

The grasses drifted ashore as best they might.

“Your objection is not well taken, sir.”

To~ no Chu~jo~ had to grant the truth in it. He had no answer.