grave by the lotus pond under the trees, was well started already; some ten or eleven priests, in fact the devoted members of the club, but in long black robes, were seen through the foliage from the distance, hopping around like the vagarious spirits of a moment (this fantastic ceremony, Kuya Nembutsu) while reciting the holy book; the voice of the recitation most musically broke the silence. We did not approach the grave, but went straight into the exhibition rooms, because we knew that the best prayer we could offer to Kenzan was to see and rightly appreciate his works of art. We all of us were unable to speak a word at the beginning, as our tongues (our heads too) lost their powers against his peculiarly distinguished art, which is the oldest and again the newest. When our minds became better composed, we sat in a corner of the room where the hangings of his flowers or trees, and the tea-bowls or incense-cases with his favourite designs, had been well arranged; we felt inclined to talk, even discuss his art.
"What a pleasing egotism," I ventured to say, "in that picture of lilies or this picture of fishes; the lilies and fishes are not an accessory as in many other Japanese pictures, but the lilies and fishes themselves in their full meaning. Again what a delightful egotism!"
"You might call flowers feminine," my artist-friend interrupted me. "But I should like to
