"The Himalayas. The roof of the world."
"No mountains on earth quite like them."
"Rugged, aren't they?—and beautiful."
"By the way, how is Daphne?"
"In excellent health, I'm sure. I haven't seen her for a long time."
Mr. Clifford turned off the road and pulled up beside a parked Cadillac sedan. Nearby was a small hut and a tiny enclosure. Within the enclosure, a goat munched on dry, colorless hay.
In front of the hut a man sat cross-legged. He was very old and thin. His skin was burned black by the sun and he wore only a white sheet wound loosely around his body. His head was completely hairless and he looked as though he had sat there for years without moving a muscle.
A woman sat on the ground in front of him. The sun was just setting and its rays played on her magnificent white hair; upon the wealth of color in her dress—a dress, Lee estimated, that must have cost several hundred dollars. Yet she sat in the dust before this ancient Indian and hung upon his every word.
"We will wait," Mr. Clifford said.
After a while, the woman got to her feet and approached the Cadillac. Lee saw her beautiful, calm, unlined face, and he was struck by her resemblance to Daphne. She looked nothing like Daphne in either face nor figure, yet they had in common an arresting mystic beauty that seemed to come from within.