Amal. Oh, no, I don't know if it's made me more ill, but I always feel well when I'm there.
Madhav. No, you don't; you squat there and make friends with the whole lot of people round here, old and young, as if they are holding a fair right under my eaves—flesh and blood won't stand that strain. Just see—your face is quite pale.
Amal. Uncle, I fear my fakir'll pass and not see me by the window.
Madhav. Your fakir, whoever's that?
Amal. He comes and chats to me of the many lands where he's been. I love to hear him.
Madhav. How's that? I don't know of any fakirs.
Amal. This is about the time he comes in. I beg of you, by your dear feet, ask him in for a moment to talk to me here.
[Gaffer Enters in a Fakir's Guise]
Amal. There you are. Come here, Fakir, by my bedside.
Madhav. Upon my word, but this is—