She took her seat under the canopy, settled herself on one elbow among the cushions, with one small henna-stained foot projecting over the edge of the divan, noticed Maitraya and suddenly smiled. That explained her. Her smile was the miracle of Asia—the expression of the spirit of the East that so few casual observers catch—a willingness to laugh—a knowledge that the whole pageant of life is only maya[[23]] after all and not to be taken too seriously—satisfaction that the sins of this life may be wiped out in the next, and the next, and that all inequalities adjust themselves ultimately. The true philosophy is sterner stuff than that; but it was impossible to see that smile of hers and not understand why men of the world paid her homage and tribute; she could see through any make-believe, and pardon any crime but impudence. One could see how she wielded more power than a thousand priests, and would very likely work less evil in the end, although fools were likely to go to swifter ruin in her company than elsewhere. She had force of character, and that is very bad for fools.
Maitraya bowed and stepped forward (for Ommony shoved him). The birthday tribute she had levied already that morning lay in a silver bowl on a little table to her right; Maitraya advanced to add his mite to it, bowed to her profoundly as he passed, and dropped his coins on top of the yellow heap, murmuring platitudes.
“Three mohurs!” exclaimed one of the fan-girls, and the men near the window laughed.
“Liar!” Maitraya cried indignantly. “I threw in five!”
“Three!” the girl repeated, laughing scornfully, whereat every other woman in the room except Vasantasena, who ignored the whole transaction, mocked him and he went and sat down on the floor near the Lama with his back against the wall, scowling as if poison and daggers were his only joy.
That left Ommony on his feet, wondering whether the Powers, that had treated him exceedingly well in all emergencies until that moment, would still stand by. It would not be correct to say his heart was in his mouth; it was pumping like a big ship’s engines, humming in his ears, and if it had not suddenly occurred to him that this woman was possibly one of the Lama’s agents for the traffic in white children he might have surrendered to nervousness. He forgot that she was too young to have had any hand in the incidents that Benjamin had told about—remembered only that the Lama was there in her house, and that a Bhat-Brahman’s tongue should be readier than nitroglycerine to go off and shake the pillars of any society.
“O Brighter than the stars!—O Shadow of Parvarti!—O Dew upon the Jasmine blossoms!” he began. “I bring a greater gift than gold.”
He was surprised by the ringing arrogance of his own voice. Vasantasena smiled. No man that day had dared to come empty-handed, yet with his mouth so full of brave words. The company had bored her. Here was a man who held out promise of amusement.
“What is greater than gold?” she inquired in tones that came rolling from her throat like organ-music. And on the instant he challenged her.
“Reputation!” he answered. “Shall I sing thine? For thou and I are both from Rajasthan, O Moon of men’s desire!”