under his bed-clothes. The boy did not seem to catch the muffled reply of his master, and so he called again, “Master!”
“What’s the matter?” This time his voice was quite clear and sharp.
“The razor has been sent back from Mr. Yamada, Sir.”
“What, another one?”
“No, master, the same one that you sharpened this evening. The messenger said that Mr. Yamada tried it once, but he thinks there is rather a poor edge on it. He wants you to try it yourself, and then to send it back to him if you think it is all right.”
“Is his messenger still waiting?”
“No, master, she went away some time ago.”
“Hand it to me,” said Yoshisaburo, and pulling his arm out from beneath the blankets of his bed, he took the razor, which was enclosed in a morocco-leather case, from Kin-ko, who bent over his master’s bed to hand it to him.
“Hadn’t you better ask Barber Yasukawa to do it for you, my dear, for your hands are rather shaky with fever?” said O-Ume-san, and, drawing her kimono across her breast, she came to her husband’s side. Yoshisaburo was silent, and stretching towards the lamp, he turned it up. He took the razor out of its case, and examined the blade very intently, turning it over and over with one hand. His wife sat down by his bedside, and gently reaching out her hand, she felt his forehead. But Yoshisaburo pushed her hand away, and seemed
