The missing sleeve soon arrived from Chūjō’s apartments with the message: ‘Had you not better have this sewn on before you wear your cloak?’ How had he managed to get hold of it? Such tricks were very tiresome and silly. But he supposed he must now give back the belt, and wrapping it in paper of the same colour he sent it with a riddling poem in which he said that he would not keep it lest he should make trouble between Chūjō and the lady. ‘You have dragged her away from me as in the scuffle you snatched from me this belt,’ said Chūjō in his answering poem, and added ‘Have I not good reason to be angry with you?’
Later in the morning they met in the Presence Room. Genji wore a solemn and abstracted air. Chūjō could not help recollecting the absurd scene of their last meeting, but it was a day upon which there was a great deal of public business to dispatch and he was soon absorbed in his duties. But from time to time each would catch sight of the other’s serious face and heavy official bearing, and then they could not help smiling. In an interval Chūjō came up to Genji and asked him in a low voice whether he had decided in future to be a little more communicative about his affairs. ‘No, indeed,’ said Genji; ‘but I feel I owe you an apology for preventing you from spending a happy hour with the lady whom you had come to visit. Everything in life seems to go wrong.’ So they whispered and at the end each solemnly promised the other not to speak of the matter to anybody. But to the two of them it furnished a constant supply of jokes for a long while to come, though Genji took the matter to heart more than he showed and was determined never to get mixed up with such a tiresome creature again. He heard however that the lady was still much ruffled, and fearing that there might be no one at hand to comfort her he had not the heart quite to discontinue his visits.
Chūjō, faithful to his promise, did not mention the affair
