9

The Kamo festival seemed very remote indeed from the dullness of his daily round.

“Suppose you all have a quiet holiday,” he said to the women, fearing that the tedium must be even more oppressive today than on most days. “Go and see what the people at home are up to.”

Chu~jo~ was having a nap in one of the east rooms. She sat up as he came in. A small woman, she brought a sleeve to her face, bright and lively and slightly flushed. Her thick hair, though somewhat tangled from sleep, was very beautiful. She was wearing a singlet of taupe-yellow, dark-gray robes, and saffron trousers, all of them just a little rumpled, and she had slipped off her jacket and train. She now made haste to put herself in order. Beside her was a sprig of heartvine.

“It is so long since I have had anything to do with it,” he said, picking it up, “that I have even forgotten the name.”

She thought it a somewhat suggestive remark.

“With heartvine we garland our hair—and you forget!

All overgrown the urn, so long neglected.” *

Yes, he had neglected her, and he was sorry.

“The things of this world mean little to me now,

And yet I find myself reaching to break off heartvine.”

There still seemed to be one lady to whom he was not indifferent.