“No, a Parisian ball is exactly the same as this.”
As he said this, the naval officer looked round at the sea of people and the chrysanthemums surrounding the table where they stood; then suddenly, as a cynical smile seemed to move like a little wave in the depths of his eyes, he put down his ice-cream spoon and added as if half to himself,
“Not only Paris. Balls are just the same everywhere.”
An hour later, Akiko and the French naval officer stood arm in arm on a balcony off the ballroom under the starlight with many other Japanese and foreigners.
Out beyond the balcony railing the pines that covered the extensive garden stood hushed with their branches interwoven, and here and there among their twigs shone the lights of little red paper lanterns.
In the bottom of the chilly air the fragrance of the moss and fallen leaves rising from the garden below seemed to set adrift faintly the breath of lonely autumn. And