So he sat down and began to eat sweet rice-milk from a golden bowl, and Visakha stood before him, dutifully fanning him. And a holy mendicant entered with his begging bowl for alms, but Migara made as though he did not see him, and ate on, keeping his head down.
“Pass on, reverend sir!” said Visakha with courtesy. “My father is eating stale food—it would not be agreeable to you.”
And when she said this, Migara leaped to his feet and cried:
“Take away this food and drive the girl from the house. To think the slut should accuse Me of eating stale food, and at a time of festival!”
“Father!” said Visakha, with composed serenity. “I shall not easily leave the house. For I am no harlot picked up at some river bathing place, but a great lady. And my father foresaw such a case, and when I left commanded eight householders of this town to investigate any charge brought against me. Summon them now.”
And Migara agreed joyfully, knowing what they must adjudge to such insolence.
Then they came—eight grave and wise men, and the story was told. And when it was heard:
“Dear girl,” said the eldest householder, “is it as he says?”
“That is not as I say! For when my father-in-law ignored the monk I said ‘He is eating stale fare.’ And I meant this—He is uselessly consuming the merit acquired in a former life instead of making fresh. Now, what fault was that?”
“None, dear girl. Our daughter speaks justly. Why are you angry with her, sir?”