She finished her little tale with three mournful notes drawn from the bass string of the chamécen.
“Humph!” said Mac.
He tapped the ashes out of his pipe into the little receptacle of the tobacco-mono, refilled it, and lit it with a glowing ember.
Whilst he was thus engaged, Campanula rose and went to the open panel space leading on to the veranda. He heard her addressing some one in her low, sweet voice, then there was a pause, then she spoke again as if in answer to some remark, then she returned.
“Blind man,” said Campanula, putting the chamécen away.
“I heard nobody,” said Mac, looking up as he finished lighting his pipe. “What did you say? Blind man? Was it he you were speaking to?”
“Yes; he said he had come from a great way, and he looked oh, so ugly and tired! He has gone to the back entrance, and they will give him food.”
“It’s these blessed paper houses,” said Mac.
“They either swallow a sound or magnify it, so’s you can’t hear yourself speak if a man sneezes in the next room.”
He smoked for a while, and then rose to go.