“Friends, no doubt, of your honorable family,” suggested the priest.
“No,” said Caswell. He realized that he did not even know her name. “But I know,” he continued. “One may know by the voice and the speech.”
“Assuredly, with us,” said the priest, “but I had thought that all families in America were equal.”
“Yes and no,” replied Caswell, absently. He had no mind for explaining the American system then. He was listening, for they were laughing again, although there seemed no reason for laughter in the conversation.
Presently Caswell rose and began his leave-taking, and the priest accompanied him to the porch where he had left his sandals. Beside the sandals they saw three pairs of shoes.
There was a pair of heavy men’s walking shoes, a pair of woman’s shoes of the type known as “common-sense,” and a third pair on which Caswell’s eyes rested. These were little Russia leather things, not new but with the workmanship and fine lines of the Oxford Street bootmaker, and they had the air of well-being which comes from proper trees and the care of an expert maid.
“It is a curious custom of the foreigners to make shoes out of leather,” observed the priest.
“It is, is it not?” said Caswell, but absently, for through the half-open wall panel he saw the party seated on the matting around the fire-pot which the fat temple boy had just deposited. The young man and the girl were sitting next one another. The aunt was examining a screen. Their backs were turned to him, so that Caswell could look without being seen. Suddenly, as he gazed at the little shoes, an idea came to him and he smiled.
The fat boy was coming out on his way for the tea and cakes, and as he passed Caswell stopped him.
The boy bowed ceremoniously.