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Uneasily, he placed the card between the pages of Strindberg’s Dramaturgy as a provisional bookmarker, placed the volume on his chair, straightened his summer kimono of Meisen silk, and glanced once more at the Gifu lantern, now directly in front of his nose.
    Now it is certainly the general rule that the host who keeps his guest waiting feels greater impatience than the waiting guest. Moreover, it hardly needs to be said that Professor Hasegawa was at all times conscientious, even on this day in regard to a woman visitor he did not know.
    At last, with conscious timing, he entered the drawing room. Nosooner had he released the doorknob than a woman in her forties stood up from the chair on which she had been sitting. She was of a refinement that was well beyond the competence of the professor to measure. Over her blue-gray summer kimono she wore a black haori of silk gauze, open slightly in the front to reveal a coldly glistening, rhombic obi pin of nephrite. Though he was usually insensitive to such trivialities, he noted that her hair was arranged in marumage style. With her round, quintessentially Japanese face and amber complexion, she had a wise, motherly air about her. A single glance was enough to suggest to him that he might have seen her before.
    â€œHasegawa,” he said affably with a bow. He thought that if he greeted her in this manner, she would remind him of where, if ever, they had previously met.
    â€œI am the mother of Nishiyama Ken’ichir ō ,” she replied in a clear voice, and bowed politely in return.
    Now he recognized the name. Nishiyama Ken’ichir ō was a student of his. Though specializing, he was fairly certain, in German law, he was among those who had written essays for him on Ibsen and Strindberg. Since his matriculation, he had taken an interest in philosophical trends and had often come to consult with him. Then after the young man’s admission to the university hospital for peritonitis in the spring, he had gone to visit once or twice when other business took him in that direction. It was no coincidence that he seemed to recognize the woman’s face, for she and that spirited youth, with his handsomely thick eyebrows, bore an amazing likeness to each other—as though, to fall back on the old saying, they were two gourds from the same row.
    â€œAh, yes, Nishiyama-kun’s . . . I see . . .”
    Half muttering as though to himself as he nodded his confirmation of this, he pointed to a chair on the other side of a small table.
    The lady first apologized for the sudden visit, then, having bowed again, accepted his invitation and sat down. As she did so, she took from her sleeve pocket a white object that appeared to be a handkerchief. Seeing this, he immediately offered her a Korean fan that lay on the table and then took his own seat across from her.
    â€œYou have a most pleasant house,” she remarked, looking about the room in what appeared to be a somewhat forced manner.
    â€œOh, it’s large enough,” he replied, accustomed to such conversational conventions. “I’m afraid we have left it quite unattended.”
    At this moment, the maid brought iced tea. He had her place the glass in front of his guest and then turned without delay to the subject at hand.
    â€œAnd how is Nishiyama-kun? Have you any news to report of him?”
    â€œYes.”
    The woman fell silent for a moment as she modestly crossed her hands on her lap. She then spoke evenly and matter-of-factly.
    â€œAs it happens, it is regarding that son of mine that I am now imposing on you. I regret to say that it has all come to naught, though I thank you for all the trouble you took on his behalf while he was still studying . . .”
    Thinking his visitor too reserved to drink the tea set before her and not wishing to appear an aggressive but somehow at the same time halfhearted host, he had just resolved to set an example by sipping his own rather than risk