Ommony smiled. Without the beard he looked as obstinate as ever, but humorous lines were revealed at the corners of his mouth which the beard had hidden. He decided to put his disguise to a severe test now, while the consequences of detection might not be too disastrous.
“All right,” he said, kicking off his slippers under the archway and accepting the chuprassi’s salaam with a patronizing nod, as if the fellow were dirt beneath his sacred feet, “I will attend to it.”
Beyond the arch there was a small paved courtyard, around the walls of which were flowers growing in painted wooden troughs. There were several tradesmen squatting there with trays of jewelry in front of them, silver and even golden images of gods, and all sorts of valuable gifts that a visitor might buy to lavish on the lady who kept house within. The tradesmen were noisy, and sarcastic when not patronized. Maitraya bridled, his vanity not proof against insinuations that he probably had squandered all his fortune long ago on much less lovely women. But one hard stare from Ommony and the banter ceased.
“I will sing a song to Vasantasena about the jackals at her gate!” he said sternly; whereat one of them offered him money, and another tried to thrust a silver image of a god into his hands. But he brushed all those offers aside.
“Shall a Bhat-Brahman take gifts from such as you?” he demanded.
“Pranam! Pranam! Paunlagi!” they murmured, raising both hands to their foreheads; whereat he blessed them, as a Brahman is obliged to, with a curt phrase that means “Victory be unto you,” and he and Maitraya passed on, through another arch, into a courtyard fifty feet square. There was a fountain in the midst, around which about a dozen well dressed Hindus were gossiping.
“I would have taken the fool’s money,” said Maitraya. “Are you not entitled to it?”
Ommony glanced at him contemptuously. “A tiger, if he wishes, may eat mice!” he answered. “A bear may eat frogs—if he likes them! A pig eats all things!”
Maitraya looked chastened.
There came across the courtyard, swaggering toward them, an heir to an ancient throne, in rose-pink turban and silken breeches, with silver spurs nearly six inches long, and a little black mustache on his lazy face that looked as if it had been stuck on there with glue. He whacked his long boots with a rhino-hide riding whip and rolled a little in his gait, as if it were almost too much trouble to support his vice-exhausted frame. He was for passing without notice, but Ommony stood by the fountain and mocked him. He knew that youngster—knew him well.