“And now do you suppose I can get you a cup of coffee or a sherbet?”
“Hush, I don’t know whether anything so vivid is possible. I believe, out of deference to Ram Juna, the refreshments are light almost to Nirvana. You can’t insult a man who lives on a few grains of rice by making him watch the herd gorge on salads and ices, can you?”
“And do you really believe that great mountain of flesh was built out of little grains of rice?”
“Mrs. Appleton—you remember her?”
“She has pounced on me already. She remembers that I waltz like a dream.”
“Dick,” said Miss Elton scornfully, “don’t make the mistake of considering yourself a plum. Mrs. Appleton told me that the Swami feeds on dew and flaming nebulae.”
“Humph!” said Dick, “I think he’s a big bronze fraud.”
“Oh, come, men may be great without playing foot-ball,” she laughed.
“Well, he’s not for me. I can believe in almost any kind of a prophet except one that works miracles.”
“Who knows? The Swami may be the molder of your destiny,” said Madeline gaily, with youth’s lightness in referring to the vague future.