"Mr. Nesbit,--Sturgeon--Herr
Kempner--Herr Teppich,"--he bowed stiffly to each, ran the battery of
their inspection, and found himself saluting three other persons at the
end of the room, under a rosy, moon-bellied lantern. A gray matron,
stout, and too tightly dressed for comfort, received him uneasily, a
dark-eyed girl befriended him with a look and a quiet word, while a tall
man, nodding a vigorous mop of silver hair, crushed his hand in a great
bony fist.
"Mrs. Earle," Heywood was saying, "Miss Drake, and--how are you,
padre?--Dr. Earle."
"Good-evening," boomed the giant, in a deep and musical bass. "We are
very glad, very glad." His voice vibrated through the room, without
effort. It struck one with singular force, like the shrewd, kind
brightness of his eyes, light blue, and oddly benevolent, under brows
hard as granite. "Sit down, Mr. Hackh," he ordered genially, "and give
us news of the other world! I mean," he laughed, "west of Suez.
Smoking's allowed--here, try that!"
He commanded them, as it were, to take their ease,--the women among
cushions on a rattan couch, the men stretched in long chairs.
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