above the piled-up chrysanthemums. And among the leaves, bunches of grapes like wasps’ nests hung in purple abundance. In front of this gilt lattice, Akiko found her bald-headed father, with another gentleman of the same age, smoking a cigar. When he saw her, he nodded slightly with evident satisfaction, and without taking further notice of her, turned to his companion and went on smoking.
The French naval officer went to one of the tables with Akiko, and they began to eat ice-cream. As they ate, she noticed that ever and anon his eyes were drawn to her hands or her hair or her neck with the light blue ribbon round it. This did not, of course, make her unhappy. But at one moment a womanly doubt could not but flash forth in her. Then, as two young women who looked like Germans went by with red camellias on their black velvet breasts, in order to hint at this doubt, she exclaimed,
“Really how beautiful western women are!”
When the naval officer heard this, contrary to her expectation, he shook his head seriously.
“Japanese women are beautiful, too. Especially you—”
“I’m no such thing.”
“No, I’m not flattering. You could appear at a Parisian ball just as you are. If you did, everybody would be surprised. For you’re like the princess in Watteau’s picture.”
Akiko did not know who Watteau was. So the beautiful vision of the past called up for the naval officer by his words—the vision of a fountain in a dusky grove and a fading rose—could only disappear without a trace and be lost. But this girl of unusual sensibility, as she plied her ice-cream spoon, did not forget to stick to just one more thing she wanted to speak of.
“I should like to go to a Parisian ball and see what they’re like.”