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Okido leaned toward her impressively.

“His name is Matsuda Isami.”

Madame Yamada’s hands trembled. She scarcely could control her voice.

“What—the——”

“Yes, the rich Matsuda Isami.”

The woman thrilled with maternal pride. Her bosom heaved. “And which of my daughters,” she asked, “has pleased the taste of the exalted Matsuda?”

Okido rubbed his hands softly.

“That one,” he said, “who is augustly named Azalea.”

Madame Yamada started to her feet with a cry. Then recalling herself she sat down again and for a space of a long moment did not stir. She regarded the Nakoda with baleful eyes. Suddenly she found her voice.

“Excellent Okido,” she said, “the humble one cannot marry the youngest of her daughters first. Pray return to the exalted Matsuda and say from me that I am willing to consent to his marriage to my oldest daughter.”

“What!” cried the amazed Okido, “you refuse?”

“Who spoke of refusing?” she asked in an agitated voice.

“Your answer is a refusal, Madame.”

The woman was silent, her mind busily at work.