Once more Georgia assumed her burka and went to interview the visitor. He was a young man, somewhat foppishly dressed, and evidently a dandy in his way, his appearance producing in Georgia’s mind the impression that his mother had spoilt him as a boy, and now lavished upon him all the money she had to spare. He came forward with a slight swagger, and salaamed in rather a perfunctory way.
“O doctor lady, thy handmaid Khadija, my mother, sends thee greetings, and entreats thee to visit her at Bir-ul-Malikat.”
“Why?” asked Georgia, with a directness which he seemed to find embarrassing, for he fidgeted with his girdle as he replied—
“Nay, O doctor lady, is it strange that my mother, having heard of thy fame, should be anxious to see thee?”
“But why does she not come here? Is she ill?”
“No; thanks be to God!” was the answer.
“Then is there any one ill in her house?”
“That is not for me to tell the doctor lady.”
“Then neither is it for the doctor lady to go there,” and Georgia was about to retire into the harem again when he sprang forward.
“Let not the doctor lady turn away the light of her countenance from her servant. There is one ill in the house.”