Uncle William looked at them a minute. Then he tucked the telegram in his pocket. “Guess I’ll go tell folks about it,” he said. Jimmu Yoshitomo took possession of Bodet and his belongings as thoroughly as Celia had taken possession of Uncle William—though with possibly a little less flurry. He made a little garden for him out by the house, and raised flowers and vegetables and planted flowers alongside the house and among the rocks—and found a sheltered corner where wisteria would live through the winter—if carefully protected. By September the wisteria had sent great shoots against the house, and the flowers among the rocks were a brilliant mass of bloom. The Japanese moved among them like a dusky blossom in white coat and trousers—his century-old face turned always toward Bodet and his needs. Andy, coming up the road, regarded him with disfavor—“Monkey man and monkey clo’es,” he said scornfully. “Benjy takes a sight o’ comfort with him,” responded William. They made their way toward the house, and Jimmu Yoshitomo approached from the garden, bowing low. Uncle William bowed low in return. Andy remained stiffly erect, detached from all these things. “Don’t you stop workin’, Jimmie Yosh,” said Uncle William kindly—“We’re just goin’ to set ’round a spell.” They went on toward the house and Jimmu Yoshitomo returned to his flowers. Inside, the house was a bit of tropic-land that had floated over seas, and lighted on the Island. Colors in the old rugs glowed dully, and little gleams of metal and glass caught the light and played with it. The tiny kitchen was a white-set gem, and through the long vista of the living-room doors there were hints of the art gallery and a scattered horde of pictures. “Like enough he’s in there,” said William. The gallery was the only room in the house that had not been put in order. Even Sergia’s and Alan’s rooms were ready—the beds made and a little basket cradle swinging in the apple-wood frame that George Manning had made for it—in his off hours. Uncle William could never pass the door without looking in. He peeked in now, on tiptoe, and withdrew. “Looks nice, don’t it?” he confided to Andy. “Kind o’ odd,” admitted Andy. They stood in the door of the gallery and looked in on its emptiness. Pictures stood on the floor and on boxes and chairs. Some of the boxes were still unopened—and only a small part of the pictures taken out had been hung up. Uncle William looked around him with pleased eyes. “He’s got some new ones out, Andy.” “Uh-huh.” Andy bent over and peered at one—a little behind the others. He straightened himself quickly and shut his eyes. “They ain’t fit to look at,” he said. Uncle William bent over and drew the picture out and regarded it with interest. He set it against a box and stood off and looked at it, and looked at it again. “She’s dreadful pretty, ain’t she, Andy?” Andy opened his eye a crack and withdrew it. “She ain’t decent,” he said firmly.