THE DRAGON PAINTER
"Poor child," mocked the artist, whose quick ears had caught the whisper. "Poor Nippon, rather, and poor old Kano, who has no better heir than this frail girl. Oh, Ando, I have clamored to the gods! I have made pilgrimages and given gifts,—but there is no one to inherit my name and the traditions of my race. Nowhere can I find a Dragon Painter!"
Ando put his hand out quickly behind him, seized the long roll tied in yellow cloth, and began to unfasten it.
Kano was panting with the vehemence of his own speech. He poured another little cup of tea and drained it. He began now to watch Ando, and found himself annoyed by the deliberation of his friend's motions. "Strange, strange" Ando was murmuring. An instant later came the whisper, "very, very strange!"
"Why do you repeat it?" cried Kano, irritably. "There was nothing strange in what I said."
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