Barbara realized instantly and uneasily that she was an intruder. Yet she felt an intense interest, mixed of what she had heard and of what she had imagined. His _outré_ street-costume had now been laid aside; he wore Japanese dress, with dark gray _houri_ and white cleft sock. His iron-gray head was bare. The expression of his face was conscious and alert, with a sort of savage shyness. "I am afraid I am intruding," she said. "I ought to have known the garden was private." "Private gardens may sometimes be seen, I suppose." The words were ungracious, though the _timbre_ of the voice was musical and soft. "I beg your pardon," she said, and moved away. He made a gesture, a quick timid movement of one hand, and stepped down toward her. "No," he said almost violently. "I don't want you to go. Can't you see I mean you to stay?" Barbara saw clearly now the variation in his eyes; the larger one was clouded, as though a film covered the iris. It gave her a slight feeling of repugnance, which she instantly regretted, for, as though rendered conscious of it through a sensitiveness almost telepathic, he turned slightly, and put a hand to his brow to cover it. "Oh," she said hastily, "I am glad. This is the most beautiful garden I have ever seen." He looked at her quickly and keenly with his one bright eye. It held none of the swart, in-turned reflectiveness of the Japanese; it was sharp and restless. Its brilliance, under eyebrows that seemed on the verge of a frown, was almost fierce. The curved, gray mustache did not hide the strong, irregular, white teeth. "You know Japanese gardens?" "Not yet," she answered. "Japan is new to me. I needn't say how lovely I think this is--you must grow tired hearing strangers rhapsodize over it!" "Strangers!" he laughed; the sound was not musical like his spoken voice, but harsh and grating. "I have one joy--no stranger ever dreams of coming to see me!" "I should have said 'your friends,'" said Barbara. "Friends would be more troublesome than my enemies," he said grimly, "who, at least, never ask me where I don't want to go." She looked at him wonderingly. She had never met any one in the least like him. His features were refined and unquestionably aristocratic but his whole expression was quiveringly sensitive, resentfully shy. It was the expression, she thought, of one whom a look might cut like a whiplash, a word sting like a searing acid. "The only foreigners I know are those who write me letters: malicious busybodies, people who want subscriptions to all sorts of shams, or invite me to join respectable, humbug societies, or write merely to gratify a low curiosity. As for friends, I have none." "Surely, I saw you with one this morning," she said, with a smile. "Ah," he said, his look changing swiftly; "I don't count Ishikichi. Children understand me."