3

Niou was unhappy. In the confusion he had not been able to convey the sort of message he had wished to. He sent frequent letters thereafter, not bothering to ask the mediation of Kaoru.

“You really should answer,” said the Eighth Prince. “But be careful not to sound too serious. That would only excite him. He has his pleasureloving ways, and you are a pleasure he is not likely to forgo.”

Though with this caveat, he encouraged replies. It was Nakanokimi who set them down. Oigimi was much too cautious and deliberate to let herself become involved in the least significant of such exchanges.

The prince, ever deeper in melancholy, found the long, uneventful spring days harder to get through than other days. The beauty and grace of his daughters, more striking as the years went by, had the perverse effect of intensifying the melancholy. If they were plain little things, he said to himself, then it might not matter so much to leave them in these mountains. His mind ran the circle of worries and ran it again, day and night. Oigimi was now twenty-five, Nakanokimi twenty-three.

It was a dangerous year for him.* He was more assiduous than ever in his devotions. Because his heart was no longer in this world, because he was intent on leaving it behind as soon as possible, the way down the cool, serene path seemed clear. But there was one obstacle, worry about the future of his daughters.

“When he puts himself into his studies,” said the people around him, “his will power is extraordinary. But don't you suppose he'll weaken when the final test comes? Don't you suppose his worries about our ladies will be too much for him?”

If only there were _someone_, he thought—someone not perhaps up to the standard he had always set, but still, after his fashion, of a rank and character that would not be demeaning, and someone who would under-take in all sincerity to look after the princesses—then he would be inclined to give his tacit blessing. If even one of the girl s could find a secure place in the world, he could without misgivings leave the other innoer charge. But thus far no one had come forward with what could be described as serious intentions. Occasionally, on some pretext, there would be a suggestive letter, and occasionally too some fellow, in the lightness of his young heart, stopping on his way to or from a temple, would show signs of interest. But there was always something insulting about these advances, some hint that the man looked down upon ladies left to waste away in the mountains. The prince would not permit the most casual sort of reply.

And now came Niou, who said that he could not rest until he had made the acquaintance of the princesses. Was this ardor a sign of a bond from a former life?