“Pippa’s voice,” went on the old man, “is charming. I liked to hear it. She has a way of looking up at one when she talks that reminds me of our friend. She told me a delightful little story about a sculptor.”
“The story,” said Barnabas, “was true. And the sculptor was Philippe Kostolitz.”
“Truly,” said the old man, “I might have guessed it.”
And again he lapsed into silence. Suddenly he roused himself.
“But you will have fruit and cake and something to drink,” he said. “I was forgetting my manners.”
“We have only just lunched,” said Barnabas.
“But fruit,” the old man insisted, “at least fruit. I hold the Eastern ideas of hospitality. Those to whom I feel friendly must eat in my house.”
He led the way back into the hall and signed to them to sit down. Then he clapped his hands three times. An Indian, brown as mahogany, in loose trousers, white shirt, and turban, answered the summons. He salaamed, his face as impassive as a mask.
The old man said something to him in a language neither Barnabas nor Pippa understood, though Barnabas guessed it to be Hindustanee.
“He has served me,” said the old man, “for fifteen years. He is faithful as a dog.”