Can It
Be Wondered At That People Like The Society Of These Simple, Loving,
Unsophisticated Beings?
Mr. Low's arrival has inflicted a severe mortification on me, for
Eblis, who has been absolutely devoted to me since I rescued him from
Mahmoud, has entirely deserted me, takes no notice of me, and seems
anxious to disclaim our previous acquaintance!
I have seen children do
just the same thing, so it makes the kinship appear even closer. He
shows the most exquisite devotion to his master, caresses him with his
pretty baby hands, murmurs ouf in the tenderest of human tones, and
sits on his shoulder or on his knee as he writes, looking up with a
strange wistfulness in his eyes, as if he would like to express himself
in something better than a monosyllable.
This is a curious life. Mr. Low sits at one end of the veranda at his
business table with Eblis looking like his familiar spirit, beside him.
I sit at a table at the other end, and during the long working hours we
never exchange one word. Mahmoud sometimes executes wonderful capers,
the strange, wild, half-human face of the siamang peers down from the
roof with a half-trustful, half-suspicious expression; the retriever
lies on the floor with his head on his paws, sleeping with one eye
open, always on the watch for a coveted word of recognition from his
master, or a yet more coveted opportunity of going out with him; tiffin
and dinner are silently served in the veranda recess at long intervals;
the sentries at the door are so silently changed that one fancies that
the motionless blue turbans and scarlet coats contain always the same
men; in the foreground the river flows silently, and the soft airs
which alternate are too feeble to stir the over-shadowing palm-fronds
or rustle the attap of the roof.
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