He fell asleep again and reawoke with a curious sentence on his lips; something that he had forgotten a long time, something that Miss Claes used to say: “Nobody knows Nagar—nobody.”
“Nobody ever will,” he added, “if he doesn’t talk any more than he used to.”
Again at breakfast the faintest little quiver of organic ease stole into him. The earth was very bright outside and the pot of tea that had been brought tasted actually sane. He had the feeling of being on the way somewhere, of having escaped something, as he watched India slip by from the window of his compartment.... Then Ahmedabad, the station, a Hindu in white garments, almost taking him in his arms—laughing, talking like an American—Nagar talking!
XXIV
MISS CLAES SPEAKS
ONE Sunday morning about three weeks after the luncheon with John Higgins, during which Rufus Melton came to the Chop House, Pidge found Miss Claes alone in the basement front.
“We’d like to come here to live. Is there any chance?” she asked.
“Yes, it can be managed, I think.”
Pidge regarded her with a kind of cold fixity and added: “We were married night before last. Rufe seems willing enough to come here. I hate to leave this house, but I didn’t think you had the rooms.”
“I’ll make a place for you; a little place, at least. But, Pidge——”
“Yes?”