of spending. For, when he presented her with sixty yen on the eve of departure, to his surprise she clung to him and cried out excitedly, "Watakusi hachiju yen hoshii!" (I want eighty yen!) As she had never seemed mercenary, and had at first stipulated for fifty, he could not account for this eager demand, which was of course immediately accorded. But the next day O Maru appeared in a very beautiful cloak, lined with white satin, on which were hand-painted designs by a well-known painter of Kyōto. She had spent nearly the whole of her present, fifty-five yen (about £5 10s.), on that royal garment, which would certainly be the most handsome of its kind in Ishinomaki. Her parting presents to René were some prettily embroidered handkerchiefs of silk and an original poem, which had more "actuality" than literary merit. In fact, it was a very artless cri de cœur, and ran thus:
"Sad is my love for
Beaurega Sama:
He goes, but I go
Never, to France."
I accompanied them to Kōbe, where the Belgic was waiting to take passengers to San Francisco, and charged myself with the duty of sending O Maru home to her family. She came with us on the liner, and was overawed by the huge steamer, with its crowd of loud-voiced, whisky-drinking barbarians. Once she crept closer to René, and asked him if he would return as soon as his mother died. Filial affection, she knew, had the first claim. Then she gave him a small wooden wedge, on which was the name of her sea-god, Watazumi-no-Mikoto, with injunctions to press it to
