"A week then, a week," said his lips, irritated at being corrected, while his heart was leaping with joy. All through lunch he spoke to them no more, but watched the place he should know so well, and the people who would so soon be his companions and friends. The inmates of the Khan only consisted of an old woman, a middle-aged woman, a young man and two children, and to none of them had he spoken, yet he loved them as he loved everything that moved or breathed or existed beneath the benedictory shade of the planes.
"En route!" said the shrill voice of Mrs. Forman. "Ethel! Mr. Graham! The best of things must end."
"To-night," thought Mr. Lucas, "they will light the little lamp by the shrine. And when we all sit together on the balcony, perhaps they will tell me which offerings they put up."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Lucas," said Graham, "but they want to fold up the rug you are sitting on."
Mr. Lucas got up, saying to himself: "Ethel shall go to bed first, and then I will try to tell them about my offering too—for it is a thing I must do. I think they will understand if I am left with them alone."
Ethel touched him on the cheek. "Papa! I've called you three times. All the mules are here."
"Mules? What mules?"
"Our mules. We're all waiting. Oh, Mr. Graham, do help my father on."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Ethel."
"My dearest papa, we must start. You know we have to get to Olympia to-night."