The professor, who was accustomed to such greetings, having the maid put the chilled tea she had just brought before his guest, immediately turned the subject of conversation toward her.
“How is Nishiyama- kun ? Is there any change in his condition?”
“Yes.”
The lady paused for a moment modestly, putting her hands, one on the other, on her knees, and then spoke quietly. Her tone continued to be calm and smooth.
“In truth it was about my son that I came today; finally nothing could be done for him. While he was alive, you were very kind to him and—”
The professor, who had taken it for reserve in her that the lady did not touch her tea, was at this moment just going to put his cup to his lips. For he thought it would be better to set an example by sipping his own tea than to urge her repeatedly and importunately to take hers. But before the cup had reached his soft mustache, her words suddenly smote his ears. Should he drink or should he not? This question, entirely independent of the youth’s death, plagued him for a moment. But he could not go on holding the cup where it was forever. So he resolutely swallowed half his tea and, knitting his brows the least bit, said in a choked voice, “That’s too bad.”
“He often spoke of you while he was in the hospital, so though I felt that you must be busy, thinking that, by way of letting you know, I’d express my thanks—”
“Oh, not at all.”
The professor put the cup down and, taking up a green waxed fan, said in a daze,