He returned along draughty corridors to the cell that was full of white mist pouring through the unglazed window, and sat down to consider whether he should keep up the Bhat-Brahman rôle or let his beard grow and resume the garb of an unimaginative Englishman.
He had not made up his mind when a rap came on the door and the Lama blew in on a gust of rising wind, his long robe fluttering clear of the strong brown legs. The chela followed him and slammed the door, unrolled a prayer-mat and presently sat down on it beside the Lama. Ommony fought hard to suppress the triumph in his eyes as he stood, and then sat down on the truckle bed in obedience to the Lama’s gesture.
“It is cold,” said the Lama. “You must have a sheepskin coat, my son. We mountaineers are too prone to forget that others suffer from what we consider comfort. Samding, see that Gupta Rao is provided.”
He did not glance at the chela. His eyes were on Ommony’s.
“And what have you learned, my son?” he asked presently.
“Very little,” said Ommony. “I have learned that all my power of observation isn’t much more than a beetle’s.”
“But that is a great deal to have learned,” the Lama answered. Then, without a pause: “And you are not yet satisfied?”
“On the contrary. I hold you to your promise to let me pursue whatever course my meditation opens up.”
“My son, I am not the appointed keeper of such permits!”
“You can make things difficult or make them easy for me. Which are you going to do?” asked Ommony; and it seemed to him that the chela was smiling behind that marvelously molded face.