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He was busy writing these letters with a kind of thick paint-brush; and he was so deep in his task that he appeared not to notice his son's approach. His restless jaw was still imperturbably chewing. He always affected surprise at this visit, which had been a daily occurrence for many years. "The cherry-flowers are fallen and finished," said the younger man. "Ah, human life, how short a thing!"
With April came the cherry-flowers, wistaria, and peonies; with iris in the bud, and shy hedge-violets; wonder of yama buki shrubs that played gold fountains on the hills, and the swift, bright contagion of young grass. Even from old Kano's moon-viewing hillock one might see, in looking out across the desert of gray city roofs, round tops of cherry trees rising like puffs of rosy smoke.
"Why," asked Geoffrey, "do the Japanese make such a fuss about their cherry-blossoms?" "They must be very pretty," answered his wife, "like great clouds of snow. Besides, the cherry-flowers are supposed to be like the Japanese spirit." "So you are my little cherry-blossom is that right?" "Oh no, not the women," she replied, "the men are the cherry-blossoms." Geoffrey laughed.
Fujinami Gentaro bowed slightly in acknowledgment across the remnants of his meal. "It is no matter," he said, with a few waves of his fan; "please sit at your ease." The two gentlemen arranged themselves squatting cross-legged for the morning's confidential talk. "The cherry-flowers," Ito began, with a sweep of the arm towards the garden grove, "how quickly they fall, alas!"
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