The news of the approaching contest spread like lightning and soon assumed the proportions of a society event.
'Give me your arm and let us take a turn through the rooms,' said Elena to Andrea Sperelli.
As soon as they were in the west room, away from the noisy crowd, Andrea pressed her arm and murmured, 'Thanks.' She leaned on him, stopping now and again to reply to some greeting.

She seemed fatigued, and was as pale as the pearls of her necklace.

Each gentleman addressed her with some hackneyed compliment.
'How stupid they all are! it makes me feel quite ill,' she said.
As they turned, she saw Sakumi was following them noiselessly, her camellia in his button-hole, his eyes full of yearning not daring to come nearer.

She threw him a compassionate smile.
'Poor Sakumi!' 'Did you not notice him before ?' asked Andrea.
'No.' 'While we were sitting by the piano, he was in the recess of the window, and never took his eyes off your hands when you were playing with the weapon of his native country--now reduced to being a paper-cutter for a European novel.' 'Just now, do you mean ?' 'Yes, just now.

Perhaps he was thinking how sweet it would be to perform _Hara-Kiri_ with that little scimitar, the chrysanthemums on which seemed to blossom out of the lacquer and steel under the touch of your fingers.' She did not smile.