new leaves from the locust tree and draw my attention to the clusters of purplish white flowers on the iron-colored vines of the ancient wisteria.
The quiet and emptiness are the same as before, but Tzu-chun will not come again—she will never, never come again.
When Tzu-chun was not with me in my dingy room, I could do nothing. In my boredom I would take a book, whether science or literature, it did not matter, and read and read. Before I could realize it, I had already turned over ten pages, but I could not remember a thing I had read. My ears, however, were unusually keen, and I fancied that I could detect among the footsteps outside the gate those of Tzu-chun and that they were drawing nearer. More often than not the footsteps would die away and lose themselves in the sound of others. I detested the son of the servant whose cotton-cloth soled shoes did not sound like Tzu-chun's at all; I detested that foppish ape in the next compound who used vanishing cream and whose new leather shoes sounded too much like hers.
Had her ricksha overturned? Had she been run over by the street car?
I wanted to take my hat and go look for her at her uncle's home, but her uncle had once berated me to my face.
Suddenly the sound of her shoes approached, louder and louder. When I went out to meet her, she had already passed the wisteria vines, her face dimpled with smiles. She probably had not had any trouble with her uncle, I thought, and I felt relieved. After we had gazed at each other in silence for a moment, the room would be gradually filled with our chatter. We talked about the oppression of the family system, about the necessity of destroying old traditions, about equality for men and women, about Ibsen, about Tagore,
