“Yes, I like it better than some of his later books,” Traherne replied, joining them at the book-covered table.
The Raja spoke again to Lucilla. “Are you fond of music, Mrs. Crespin? But, of course, you are!”
“Why?” she demanded gayly.
Rukh looked into her eyes. “It is written—there,” he told her softly. “Suppose we have some during dinner.” He went, as he spoke, to the gramophone in the corner, and began turning over a stack of records that lay beside it, and put one of them carefully on the top of the pile, just as Watkins came noiselessly in from a door, and the major-domo as silently from another. “Watkins, just start that top record, will you. Ah!”—the native servant, salaaming had spoken—“Madame est servie! Allow me—”
And Mrs. Crespin laid her white hand on the brown man’s black-sleeved arm.
“I can recommend this caviare, Major,” Rukh said when they were seated—“and you’ll take a glass of maraschino with it—Russian fashion?”
Crespin would.
The gramophone reeled out its first, slow bars, and a wonderful sunset flooded the loggia.
“Oh, what is that?” Lucilla asked after she’d listened a moment.
“Don’t you know it?” Rukh questioned.