Michael entered and waited in silence, until the old African had slowly and carefully locked the door again.
"To you, O my son, my dwelling-place seems empty and bare; to me it is filled with the treasures of paradise, the sweet fragrance of white jasmine."
"I understand," Michael said.
"My son," the old man said, "it is because you understand that I am here, in this little room, glorified by the presence of Allah, made beautiful by His exceeding great beauty. I see many flowers; I can hear the singing of birds and the running of cool waters."
"Your home is an abode of peace. Its beauty is the perfection of understanding. Your jasmine is the fragrance of love."
"Our thoughts, my son, are our real riches. In no place are we far from Allah. What of your work—has it prospered?"
This was, Michael knew, the usual Moslem greeting to a friend; it did not refer to any particular form of work or to his worldly affairs.
"All is well, O my father."
"I have no bodily refreshment to offer you, my son." He smiled a queer, grim smile; it stretched the hard skin of his face, which mid-African suns had tanned.
"I need no material food, O my father," Michael said, "I have eaten well and I know your frugal life. I seek better food."