"We are here on the day appointed, Mr. Williams. It is a feast-day of your people?"
Mr. Williams had lain back, with closed eyes, on his mat. Nostalgia was doing duty to him for imagination. He was wafted to a bedroom in Marylebone, where in honour of the Day he lay late dozing, with great contentment; outside, a slush of snow in the street, the sound of church-bells; from below a savour of especial cookery. "Yes," he said, "it's a feast-day of my people."
"Of mine also," said the islander humbly.
"Is it though? But they'll do business first?"
"They must first do that."
"And they'll bring their ivory with them?"
"Every man will bring ivory," answered the islander, with a smile gleaming and wide.
"How soon'll they be here?"
"Has not the sun risen? They are on their way."
"Well, I hope they'll hurry. The sooner we're off this cursed island of yours the better. Take all those things out," Mr. Williams added, pointing to the merchandise, "and arrange them—neatly, mind you!"