For there was a strange and disturbing air of loneliness about
Hillside. She would have welcomed the appearance of a butler or a
parlourmaid, or any representative of the white race. Yes: there
lay the root of the matter--this feeling of aloofness from all
that was occidental, a feeling which the English appointments of
the room did nothing to dispel. Then a gong sounded and the party
went in to lunch.
A white-robed Hindu waited at table, and Phil discovered his
movements to be unpleasantly silent. There was something very
unreal about it all. She found herself constantly listening for
the sound of an approaching car, of a footstep, of a voice, the
voice of Paul Harley. This waiting presently grew unendurable,
and:
"I hope Mr. Harley is safe," she said, in a rather unnatural
tone. "Surely he should have returned by now?"
Ormuz Khan shrugged his slight shoulders and glanced at a
diamond-studded wrist watch which he wore.
"There is nothing to fear," he declared, in his soft, musical
voice. "He knows how to take care of himself. And"--with a
significant glance of his long, magnetic eyes--"I am certain he
will return as speedily as possible."
Nevertheless, luncheon terminated, and Harley had not appeared.
"You have sometimes expressed a desire," said Ormuz Khan, "to see
the interior of a Persian house. Permit me to show you the only
really characteristic room which I allow myself in my English
home.
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