As I was standing at the foot of the stairs, I noticed a young girl across the courtyard. She was sitting on a low stone wall, picking flowers out of the garden behind her and gathering them into a bouquet. One passerby, and then another, gave her a look of disapproval, but she seemed oblivious to everyone around her. She was dark-haired and lovely, yet there was something in her manner that struck me as melancholy. After she had picked as many flowers as her small hands could hold, she turned back toward the courtyard and looked around with a detached and day-dreamy air. Presently her eyes settled on me. I tipped my hat and she smiled brightly, looking so delighted that I wondered if we’d met somewhere before. Then she stood and seemed to float across the courtyard, her long, thick hair trailing behind her, her white gossamer dress hanging nearly to the ground. When she reached me, she stopped and looked up into my face with the innocent curiosity of a child.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Nora. Who are you?”
I smiled indulgently and bowed. “I’m Jun. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She spread her arms wide and spun fully around, as if embracing the entire world. “It’s perfect today, isn’t it? I wish I didn’t have to be here.”
“Ah,” I said. “But where else would you find such beautiful flowers?”
“At home in Georgia,” she replied, turning back to me but looking somewhere else. “There were all different kinds of flowers and trees. It was like the whole world was alive.”
That she called Georgia her home surprised me, for she lacked any trace of an accent. “And when were you last home?” I asked.
“Oh, too long, too long.” She sat down on the stone wall beside me. “You’re that famous Japanese actor, aren’t you? ‘The dark storm from the perfumed Orient.’ I read about you last month in Photoplay.”
I chuckled. “Well, Miss Nora, I don’t know how famous I am. But yes, I am an actor. I’m under contract here with Perennial.”
“My mother says your picture was immoral, but I rather liked it. I snuck out of the house to watch it with my friends.” She giggled, and I wondered what she was doing there at Perennial. I had no doubt which picture she was speaking of.
“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“My mother thinks Japs shouldn’t be in pictures at all, but she says you’re a talented actor. She doesn’t like anyone very much, to tell you the truth. Especially the men who work here.” She gestured toward the offices. “She thinks they’re all crooks. She liked the people in New York much better.”
I peered at the girl more closely, thinking now that she looked familiar. She must have been sixteen or seventeen, although she acted more like twelve. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Nora,” she repeated, as if the whole matter of names was tiresome. “Nora Niles.” Then she looked into my face and said, “My, Mr. Nakayama, you’re lovely.”
Although she said this with genuine feeling, I knew at once that her words were innocent. She was simply expressing her appreciation for my objective appeal, as if I were one of the flowers she had plucked from the garden. In fact, just as my mind had formulated that analogy, she extended the hand that held the bouquet. “Here. I think you should have these.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Niles, but I’d rather you keep them. They’re delightful, more befitting a lady.”
“All right.” The girl sighed and cast her eyes to the ground, and I was afraid that I had injured her feelings. But when she spoke again, the flowers had gone from her mind. “It’s so nice to talk to people. There are so few lovely people in the world.”
I considered her more closely—her blushed, rounded cheeks, her full lips, the irrepressible dark hair—and was certain now that I had seen her before. How I knew her— and who she was—struck me at precisely the moment that a high, shrill voice split the afternoon tranquility. “Nora!”
I turned around to look for the source of the voice, while the girl just kept her eyes on the ground.
“Nora, you come over here right now!”
Reluctantly, still not even glancing in the direction of the voice, the girl pulled herself up to her feet. But she didn’t move from her spot, and in another few seconds a woman rushed over to where we stood. My immediate impression of this woman was that she was boiling—not merely angry, but actually bubbling with anger. She had the same dark curly hair as the girl, and the same brown eyes, though hers were devoid of wonder. She grabbed the girl by the elbow and shot me a look. “You come
