So he sat there, breathing in the air of the place and the hour, while gardeners came and went with their watering-pots, and birds twittered among the branches, and the fountain plashed beside him, until Shaban reappeared carrying a glass of water and a cup of coffee in a swinging tray.
'Eh, Shaban! It is not your business to carry coffee!' protested the Pasha, reaching for a stand that stood near him.
'What is your business is my business, my Pasha. Have I not eaten your bread and your father's for thirty years?'
'No! Is it as long as that? We are getting old, Shaban.'
'We are getting old,' assented the Albanian simply.
The Pasha thought, as he took out his silver cigarette-case, of another pasha who had complimented him that afternoon on his youthfulness. And, choosing a cigarette, he handed the case to his gatekeeper. Shaban accepted the cigarette and produced matches from his gay girdle.
'How long is it since you have been to your country, Shaban?'
The Pasha, lifting his little cup by its silver zarf, realized that he would not sip his coffee quite so noisily had his French wife been sitting with him under the horse-chestnuts. But with his old Shaban he could still be a Turk.
'Eighteen months, my Pasha.'
'And when are you going again?'