CHAPTER XXXV
Fanny Brassfield, whose country house was not far away, sometimes dropped in to see Lilla.
"Hello, David," she said, sitting down beside the tea table, and crossing her knees. "How's old Marco Polo to-day?"
Her bony cheeks were rosy from the cold wind; her green eyes glittered with health; and her whole countenance, under a tilted, putty-colored toque, expressed her full satisfaction with what she had found in life. She had no nerves, no remorse nor thwarted ambitions. Because of her wealth, unscrupulousness, and small imagination, her one constant craving—for novel experiences—was easily satisfied. A long cigarette holder between her thin lips, one putty-colored lisle stocking showing to the knee, she exhaled, together with an odor of Florentine orris-root, a ruthless vigor and appetency for pleasure. Lilla thought with envy of all this woman had never imagined nor felt, all that she had been able to enjoy without self-questioning.
How simple life was for some people!
"I'm giving a little party. No doubt it's useless to ask you——"
Fanny Brassfield interrupted herself to stare at Hamoud-bin-Said, who had entered the room without a sound.
He had on a long, dark-blue joho, or robe, embellished down its open front with a tracery of gold. Underneath he wore the kanzu, the under robe of fine white cotton, embroidered round the neck with a bit of red needlework, and reaching to his boots of soft, black leather. Bound his waist was a blue-and-gold sash, from which protruded the silver hilt of his J-shaped Zanzibar dagger. His head was covered, as always in the house, with a white embroidered skullcap. In one small hand he held a Venetian goblet, in the other a bottle of medicine.
It was the hour for Dr. Fallows' prescription.