Puzzle as he would, that oracle refused to clothe itself in words.
What could it be?
A message of universal application, "loving and enigmatical," as the old man had called it. True! It was a greeting from an unknown friend in an unknown land; something familiar from the dim past or distant future; something that spoke of well-being—plain to behold, hard to expound, like the dawning smile of childhood.
CHAPTER XXXI
Towards evening, Mr. van Koppen drove the bishop down in the carriage which he usually hired for the whole of his stay on Nepenthe. They said little, having talked themselves out with the Count. The American seemed to be thinking about something. Mr. Heard's eye roamed over the landscape, rather anxiously.
"I don't like that new cloud above the volcano," he observed.
"Looks like ashes. Looks as if it might drift in our direction, doesn't it, if the wind were strong enough to move it? Do you see much of the Count?" he enquired.
"Not as much as I should like. What excellent veal cutlets those were!
So white and tender. Quite different from the veal we get in England.
And that aromatic wine went uncommonly well with them. It was his own
growth, I suppose."
"Very likely. From that little vineyard which produces so many good things." He chuckled softly. "As to English veal—I never yet tasted any worth eating. If you don't slaughter a calf till it's grown into a cow—why, you're not likely to get anything but beef."
"They say the English cannot cook, in spite of the excellence of their prime materials."