“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.  He put questions, indolent, friendly questions, opening vistas of reply and recollection; so that Rudolph, answering, felt the first return of homely comfort.  A feeble return, however, and brief:  in the pauses of talk, misgiving swarmed in his mind, like the leaping vermin of last night.  The world into which he had been thrown still appeared disorderly, incomprehensible, and dangerous.  The plague—­it still recurred in his thoughts like a sombre motive; these friendly people were still strangers; and for a moment now and then their talk, their smiles, the click of billiards, the cool, commonplace behavior, seemed a foolhardy unconcern, as of men smoking in a powder magazine.

“Clearing a bit, outside,” called Nesbit.  A little, wiry fellow, with cheerful Cockney speech, he stood chalking his cue at a window.  “I say, what’s the matter one piecee picnic this week?  Pink Pagoda, eh?  Mrs. Gilly’s back, you know.”

“No, is she?” wheezed the fat Sturgeon, with something like enthusiasm.  “Now we’ll brighten up!  By Jove, that’s good news.  That’s worth hearing.  Eh, Heywood?”

“Rather!” drawled Rudolph’s friend, with an alacrity that seemed half cynical, half enigmatic.

A quick tread mounted the stairs, and into the room rose Dr. Chantel.  He bowed gracefully to the padre’s group, but halted beside the players.  Whatever he said, they forgot their game, and circled the table to listen.  He spoke earnestly, his hands fluttering in nervous gestures.

“Something’s up,” grumbled Heywood, “when the doctor forgets to pose.”

Behind Chantel, as he wheeled, heaved the gray bullet-head and sturdy shoulders of Gilly.

“Alone?” called the padre.  “Why, where’s the Mem?”

He came up with evident weariness, but replied cheerfully:—­

“She’s very sorry, and sent chin-chins all round.  But to-night—­Her journey, you know.  She’s resting.—­I hope we’ve not delayed the concert?”

“Last man starts it!” Heywood sprang up, flung open a battered piano, and dragged Chantel to the stool.  “Come, Gilly, your forfeit!”

The elder man blushed, and coughed.

“Why, really,” he stammered.  “Really, if you wish me to!”

Heywood slid back into his chair, grinning.

“Proud as an old peacock,” he whispered to Rudolph.  “Peacock’s voice, too.”