A lump of raw cotton appeared on the table.
“I thought there might be a need. Therefore I packed it between our shirts,” said the voice of Imam Din.
“Does he know as much English as that?” cried the Infant, who had forgotten his East.
We all admired the cotton for Adam's sake, and, indeed, it was very long and glossy.
“It's—it's only an experiment,” he said. “We're such awful paupers we can't even pay for a mailcart in my District. We use a biscuit-box on two bicycle wheels. I only got the money for that”—he patted the stuff—“by a pure fluke.”
“How much did it cost?” asked Strickland.
“With seed and machinery—about two hundred pounds. I had the labour done by cannibals.”
“That sounds promising.” Stalky reached for a fresh cigarette.
“No, thank you,” said Agnes. “I've been at Weston-super-Mare a little too long for cannibals. I'll go to the music-room and try over next Sunday's hymns.”
She lifted the boy's hand lightly to her lips, and tripped across the acres of glimmering floor to the music-room that had been the Infant's ancestors' banqueting hall. Her grey and silver dress disappeared under the musicians' gallery; two electrics broke out, and she stood backed against the lines of gilded pipes.