They talked for a time, but to Caswell it was with an effort. His soul that day had no meeting with his friend, and the priest was aware of it. He produced tobacco and they lit the little pipes and, inhaling a few whiffs, sat in silence.
Presently Caswell turned his head to listen. Through the paper screen which made the partition wall, he heard the girl’s voice; then the voice of her aunt. They were entering the room next.
“It is a party of foreigners,” observed the priest. “They have doubtless been generous to the boy. Liberal foreigners are sometimes invited to partake of the temple tea. The tea money (chadai) goes to the restoration fund.”
“Is it so?” said Caswell. He was listening.
“I am afraid that I never could get used to sitting on my feet,” said her aunt.
“Poor auntie!” said the girl, and then she laughed, and as she laughed Caswell held his breath. It was a low, sweet, bubbling laugh; the laughter that is compelled by happiness in the heart, just as a fountain bubbles under a pressure of crystal water.
A moment later came the deeper tones of a man’s voice, also laughing, and the echo of the same happiness was in them.
Caswell smiled and a mist came into his eyes. He understood. He looked at the old priest, and he too was smiling.
“The young foreign lady has an agreeable voice,” observed the priest. “Unlike most.”
“Unlike most who travel here,” said Caswell, “she is of an honorable family.”