The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

as Keiko’s gentleman friend. He was always invited
with her to dinner.
It angered him when at one embassy the footmen
were in formal Japanese dress. “Displaying the
natives, nothing more. It’s an insult.”
“I don’t feel that way at all. Japanese men look
better in Japanese clothes. Your dinner jacket does
nothing for me at all.”
When, at a diplomatic black-tie dinner, the guests
would start for the dining room with a gentle stir, the
ladies in the lead, and the flowers on the table would
throw deep shadows from a forest of silver
candlesticks, and outside there would be quiet
summer rain, the shining sadness of it all was most
becoming to Keiko. She allowed not a flicker of the
ingratiating smile so common among Japanese
women. There was grand tradition in the grand
glowing back of the retreating figure. She even had
the husky, melancholy voice of the old Japanese
aristocrat. In the company of ambassadors whose
weariness was showing through the gilt and of coldblooded
counselors each with his own special
affectations, Keiko was alive.
Since they would be separated at the table, Keiko
spoke to him quietly in the procession. “I brought up
Robe of Feathers. But I’ve never been to Mio. Take