When Ah Ben had finished his coffee, the three retired to the great
entrance hall, where the fire was burning brightly, and the hanging
lamp lending its uncertain aid to the illumination of the curious old
apartment. Ah Ben produced a couple of long-stemmed pipes, one of
which he handed to Paul, with a great leather pouch of leaf tobacco
which he showed his guest how to prepare for smoking. They seated
themselves in the pew before the fire, Dorothy nearest the hearth,
while Paul placed himself upon the lounge opposite.
A great stillness pervaded the house, and Mr. Henley could not help
wondering again if there were not other members of the establishment.
Dorothy was staring into the fire, her thoughts far away, while Ah
Ben smoked his pipe in silence. "Perhaps they have theories about
digestion," Paul reflected, while he pulled at his long Ti-ti stem,
and watched the meditative couple before him. The firelight played
upon Ah Ben's white moustache and swarthy features, and the colored
handkerchief upon his head, and set the long thin fingers all of a
tremble upon the pipe-stem, as if manipulating the stops of a flute.
It danced over Dorothy's gown in a dazzling sheen of white, and
flashed upon her jeweled hands in colored sparks of green and gold
and purple and red, and lit up her face and hair with the soft warm
tints of a Rubens. Such a picture did the twain combine to make; they
looked indeed as if they might have stepped from the canvas of some
old master and come for a brief season to taste the joys of flesh and
blood and life.
The outer regions of the hall were in darkness, the ancient lamp
barely revealing the oddities of brush, chisel, and structure, that
combined to make the most remarkable living-room that Henley had ever
seen. The decaying portraits, the singular carvings and peculiar
furniture, now only revealed themselves by suggestion in the faint
illumination of the lamp and uncertain flicker of the fire.
But what were these people, Dorothy and Ah Ben, to each other? It was
out of the question that they could be husband and wife--it seemed
equally so that they could be father and daughter. Paul searched the
faces of each for traces of similiarity, but there were none. Their
manner to each other, the girl's mode of addressing the man, all
indicated the absence of kinship. Yes, Henley felt quite certain that
Ah Ben and Dorothy Guir were neither related nor connected, and that
they were never likely to become so.
From time to time the old man would arise to mend the fire, and a
quiet conversation upon indifferent topics ensued, Dorothy uttering a
few words occasionally, in a dreamy voice, with her head propped upon
a cushion in the corner. At last she failed to answer when spoken to;
evidently she had fallen asleep.