"It's very beautiful," said Lena. "And who is the large gentleman with
the long white mustaches?"
"Surely you have met Mr. Preston. He is one of our best type of business
men, and the candidate that the new reform element, in which your
husband is playing an honorable part, is hoping to set up for mayor. It
would be a notable thing for this community if we might have a man of
his stamp represent our municipality."
"I have heard Dick speak of him," said Lena, "And is that the wonderful
Hindu of whom I've heard? All the ladies are crazy about him, but I
never happened to see him before."
"That is Ram Juna. He has been with me now for two months, and is to
stay indefinitely. He is engaged on a work that will, I am convinced,
add one more to the sacred books of the world. We need such men in this
age of materialism, do we not? And I feel gratefully the beneficent
effect of such a presence in my house."
So Mr. Early went on with ponderous sentences and a sharp look in his
eye.
But Lena hardly heard him. She was absorbed in the soft lights and the
flowers and the wonderful china, most of which, her host told her, had
been made in his own works and was unique in the world. But strange as
were all these things, her eyes kept coming back, as if fascinated, to
the man-mountain in the silky white robe. The big ruby on his forehead
seemed to wink and flash at her, and as often as she looked she met the
sleepy eyes fixed on her face. Then she was irresistibly drawn to look
again to see if he was still watching. For once, she forgot her big blue
eyes and her bright little fluffs of hair and all the execution that
they were meant to do on the masculine heart, because there was
something different in the way this Oriental surveyed her. It was an
unblinking and unemotional study.
Fortunately Mr. Early was content to talk and let her answer in brief.
Talking was not Lena's strong point. Mr. Early went on with his
monologue, in platitudes about art, and Lena looked interested, or tried
to, while she caught scraps of conversation from farther down the table.
Miss Elton was telling a story of her cooking-class in a certain poor
district. She had shown a flabby wife, noted even in that region for her
lack of culinary skill, how to make a dish at once cheap, palatable and
nutritious.
"And I said, 'Now Mrs. Koshek, if you'd give that to your husband some
night when he comes home tired, don't you think it would be a pleasant
surprise?' But all I could get out of her was, 'I'd ruther eat what I'd
ruther; I'd ruther eat what I'd ruther.' And I'm afraid Mr. Koshek is
still living on greasy sausages."