It was nearly dawn when he got between the cool linen sheets, and was asleep almost as his dark head lay back against the soft white pillow.

XII

SHOWS HOW A MAN MAY CLIMB A HUNDRED STEPS INTO A PASSIONLESS PEACE, AND RETURN AGAIN TO A WORLD OF SMALL TORMENTS

By the end of a week Coryndon had slipped into the ways of Mangadone, slipped in quietly and without causing much comment.  He went to the Club with Hartley and made the acquaintance of nearly all his host’s friends, and they, in return, gave him the casual notice accorded to a passing stranger who had no part or lot in their lives or interests.  Coryndon was very quiet and listened to everything; he listened to a great deal in the first three days, and Fitzgibbon, a barrister, offered to take him round and show him the town.

Coryndon was “shown the town,” but apparently he found a lasting joy in sight-seeing, and could witness the same sights repeatedly without failing interest.  He climbed the steps to the Pagoda, under the guidance of Fitzgibbon, the first afternoon they met.

“Won’t you come, too, Hartley?” asked the Barrister.

“Not if I know it.  I’ve been there about sixty times.  If Coryndon wants to see it, I’m thankful to let him go there with you.”

Fitzgibbon, who had a craze for borrowing anything that he was likely to want, had persuaded Prescott, the junior partner in a rice firm, to lend him his car, and as he sat in the tonneau beside Coryndon, he pointed out the places of interest.  Their way lay first through the residential quarter, and Hartley’s guest saw the entrance gate and gardens of Draycott Wilder’s house.

“The most interesting and certainly the best-looking woman in Mangadone lives there, a Mrs. Wilder.  Hartley ought to have told you about her; he is rather favoured by the lady.  Her husband is a rising civilian.  Mrs. Wilder has bought Asia, and is wondering whether she’ll buy Europe next.”

Coryndon hardly appeared impressed or even interested.

“So she is a friend of Hartley’s?” he said carelessly.  “I hadn’t heard that.”

Fitzgibbon laughed.

“It’s something to be a friend of Mrs. Wilder—­that is, in Mangadone.”

They sped on over the level road, and the car swung through the streets that led towards the open space before the temple.

“That is the curio dealer’s shop.  Don’t get any of your stuff there.  The man’s a robber.”

“Which shop?” asked Coryndon patiently.

“We’re past it now, but it was the one with a dancing man outside of it, a funny little effigy.”

Coryndon’s eyes were turned to the Pagoda, and he was evidently inattentive.

“It strikes you, doesn’t it?” asked Fitzgibbon, in the tones of a gratified showman.  “It always does strike people who haven’t seen it before.”

“Naturally, when one has not seen it before,” echoed his companion, as the car drew up.