Then he opened the door, and without there stood a dwarfish creature bearing somewhat the semblance of a man. He was very, very thin and little, and very, very old, at least if one was to judge from the wrinkles on his face, for it was lined with them.
“Slave, conduct this Spirit to the apartment that has been prepared,” Plucritus said, and the hauteur in his voice matched the pride upon his face.
“Don’t talk too much to him,” he added more carelessly to me. “He has, or rather had, a pretty bad habit of repeating things.”
Walking backward across the polished floor the old slave conducted me to a broad flight of stairs, which led me to a pillared gallery set with fine armoury and statues. From thence we passed along a corridor built in grained marble with doors on each side, and through one of these we entered into a large apartment set aside for private rest.
I had the advantage, being myself a Spirit, of wearing that simple garment (which is worn by Spirits and needs no other ornament) which you in your world call invisibility. It is that finely-woven mist which clings like graceful raiment or like bright hazes round the sun.
Yet I noticed the old creature was bringing forth from a wardrobe in an adjoining chamber most gorgeous clothing.
“Take it back,” I commanded shortly, turning to him. “This is not my own.”
He scarcely seemed to heed me, but went on placing vestment after vestment in almost luxurious profusion on the bed.
Then, losing my temper, for no other reason perhaps than that I was in hell, I turned to him.
“Fool,” I said, “do you take me for a harlequin or a beggar, that you force things upon me that are not my own?”