“You could have made music in it with your lute and voice, Féraz, had you chosen,” he said. “As for me, I went to see Hamlet.”
“Oh, why did you go?” demanded Féraz impetuously. “I would not see it—no! not for worlds! Such poetry must needs be spoilt by men’s mouthing of it,—it is better to read it, to think it, to feel it,—and so one actually sees it,—best.”
“You talk like a poet,”—said El-Râmi indulgently. “You are not much more than a boy, and you think the thoughts of youth. Have you any supper ready for me?”
Féraz smiled and sprang up, left the room, and returned in a few minutes with a daintily-arranged tray of refreshments, which he set before his brother with all the respect and humility of a well-trained domestic in attendance on his master.
“You have supped?” El-Râmi asked, as he poured out wine from the delicately-shaped Italian flask beside him.
Féraz nodded.
“Yes. Zaroba supped with me. But she was cross to-night—she had nothing to say.”
El-Râmi smiled. “That is unusual!”
Féraz went on. “There have been many people here,—they all wanted to see you. They have left their cards. Some of them asked me my name and who I was. I said I was your servant—but they would not believe me. There were great folks among them—they came in big carriages with prancing horses. Have you seen their names?”
“Not I.”