"Ah, well!" replied Bopaul, in a lighter and more careless tone. "We are acquiring knowledge under you, sir; we can sift and compare without apostacy, I hope. Come for a walk, Ananda. The fresh air will clear away the cobwebs from our brains and make us more profitable pupils."
The Professor's grey eyes, full of sympathy and friendliness, rested on Ananda in silence. He did not say, "Go; the walk will do you good." Nor did he reach out his hand for pen or book, a sign that he was ready to return to his own studies. He waited, leaning back in the revolving chair in front of his writing-table.
"No, thanks; I would rather stay in-doors. The noise and traffic of the streets——"
"You will never conquer your nerves by keeping away from the outside world. It will have to be faced sooner or later; the sooner the better," said Bopaul, as his hand touched the door.
Ananda turned from the speaker to the silent Professor, and gathered strength from his steady gaze.
"Don't wait, Bopaul; I am not going out this morning."
With a lifting of the shoulders the other left the room, shifting responsibility on to the Englishman. Silence was maintained for some seconds after his departure. Ananda broke it.
"If only I could believe that this endless cycle of rebirths need not be, I should be happier," he said.
The pathetic appeal for some ray of hope went straight to Twyford's heart. Pity and an intense desire to help in spiritual trouble roused the man, and he poured forth the doctrines of comfort that console the dying Christian. It was not done with the intention of converting, but in the merciful desire of bringing some small consolation to the despairing man to whom the fear of the future made life in the present intolerable. The fate that had overtaken Coomara might at any moment, whether at home or abroad, be Ananda's.
For more than an hour they talked, and the gloom on Ananda's face lightened.