His voice trembled. El-Râmi’s smile had in it something of compassion.
“Love in your Star is a dream, Féraz—” he said gently—“But love here—here in this phase of things we call Reality,—means,—do you know what it means?”
Féraz shook his head.
“It means Money. It means lands, and houses and a big balance at the bank. Lovers do not subsist here on flowers and music,—they have rather more vulgar and substantial appetites. Love here is the disillusion of Love—there, in the region you speak of, it may perchance be perfect——”
A sudden rush of rain battering at the windows, accompanied by a gust of wind, interrupted him.
“What a storm!” exclaimed Féraz, looking up—“And you are expecting——”
A measured rat-tat-tat at the door came at that moment, and El-Râmi sprang to his feet. Féraz rose also, and set aside his mandolin. Another gust of wind whistled by, bringing with it a sweeping torrent of hail.
“Quick!” said El-Râmi, in a somewhat agitated voice—“It is—you know who it is. Give him reverent greeting, Féraz—and show him at once in here.”
Féraz withdrew,—and, when he had disappeared, El-Râmi looked about him vaguely with the bewildered air of a man who would fain escape from some difficult position, could he but discover an egress,—a slight shudder ran through his frame, and he heaved a deep sigh.
“Why has he come to me!” he muttered, “Why—after all these years of absolute silence and indifference to my work, does he seek me now?”