She was now in the shadow of the gateway, so that he could not see her face, but she saw his, and she said with a change of voice, “Mrs. Moore.”
“Mrs.——” Advancing, he found that she was old.
A fabric bigger than the mosque fell to pieces, and he did not know whether he was glad or sorry. She was older than Hamidullah Begum, with a red face and white hair. Her voice had deceived him.
“Mrs. Moore, I am afraid I startled you. I shall tell my community—our friends—about you. That God is here—very good, very fine indeed. I think you are newly arrived in India.”
“Yes—how did you know?”
“By the way you address me. No, but can I call you a carriage?”
“I have only come from the club. They are doing a play that I have seen in London, and it was so hot.”
“What was the name of the play?”
“Cousin Kate.”
“I think you ought not to walk at night alone, Mrs. Moore. There are bad characters about and leopards may come across from the Marabar Hills. Snakes also.”