A clear, blue day in early March dawned for Yuki's first reception. Sunshine coaxed new flowers from the springing lawn, and rolled apples of joyous discord among the crows and sparrows. The two chief decorators, Gwendolen and Yuki, had not dared to rely on the day for external brightness. Draperies added to the long shapeless windows hung ready to exclude sunshine and storm alike. At Gwendolen's suggestion, candles and quaint candelabra were to give the key-note to decoration. Old junk-shops and second-hand dealers in temple brasses had been rummaged with rich results. Branching clusters of tapers sprang everywhere from plain spaces on the walls. Standing candelabra and quaint single candlesticks occupied tables, mantels, and the tops of cabinets and book-shelves, alternating with bowls and vases of cut flowers. The wall-lights, placed tactfully but a few feet above the head of an average man, threw into softened shadow the vast and disproportionate ceiling. Yuki's delight was pleasant to witness. She never could have dreamed--as she often told her friend--that the old lecture-hall could look so well. The garish hangings and unspeakable oil-paintings became inconspicuous, and were further softened by wreaths of smilax and other imported hot-house vines. As the opening hour approached, Yuki became more and more excited, though her efforts after matronly calm were apparent. Even the knowledge that Pierre would certainly come that afternoon should not daunt her. Nothing had been heard from him since that one interview at Kamakura. Of this Yuki had not spoken, not even to Gwendolen. Well, let him come, and give her pain! She deserved it! Still would friends be left, Gwendolen, and Mr. Todd, and the dear mother, Iriya, and--and her husband, Hagané. Her troubled heart faced round to him, but it was as if she stood before a stone precipice. He was too great; she too close. All through the forenoon of that busy day presents had been arriving. The flood-gates of official recognition had been thrown wide. Gifts of flowers, of fruit in wonderful baskets, of growing plants in exquisitely glazed hana-bachi, came in embarrassing confusion. Baron Tsukeru, who united a passion for Japanese peonies to a more exotic devotion to orchids, sent a great lacquered tray heaped with broken rainbows, hoar-frost, and strange, flying insects turned to flowers. Old Prince Shirota, who had been present at their marriage, sent to the prince and his new princess a box of eggs, together with a humorous poem, saying, "May each smooth egg betoken a life of wedded happiness, and may each year bring an heir. So shall joy and the house of Hagané be immortal!" A cabinet minister sent a case of champagne, also with a poem; but his was paraphrased from Tennyson. Sweetmeats, oranges, and loose flowers came literally by cartloads.