I sipped my coffee in disgust with myself.  All the time, while trying to persuade myself that Isaacs was only a very successful schemer, neither better nor worse than other men, I was conscious of the face that would not be banished from my sight.  I saw the beautiful boyish look in his deep dark eyes, the gentle curve of the mouth, the grand smooth architrave of the brows.  No—­I was a fool!  I had never met a man like him, nor should again.  How could Miss Westonhaugh save herself from loving such a perfect creature?  I thought, too, of his generosity.  He would surely keep his promise and deliver poor Shere Ali, hunted to death by English and Afghan foes, from all his troubles.  Had he not the Maharajah of Baithopoor in his power?  He might have exacted the full payment of the debt, principal and interest, and saved the Afghan chief into the bargain.  But he feared lest the poor Mohammedans should suffer from the prince’s extortion, and he forgave freely the interest, amounting now to a huge sum, and put off the payment of the bond itself to the maharajah’s convenience.  Did ever an Oriental forgive a debt before even to his own brother?  Not in my experience.

I rose and went down to Isaacs.  I found him as on the previous evening, among his cushions with a manuscript book.  He looked up smiling and motioned me to be seated, keeping his place on the page with one finger.  He finished the verse before he spoke, and then laid the book down and leaned back.

“So you have made up your mind that you would like to see Ram Lal.  He will be here in a minute, unless he changes his mind and does not come after all.”

There was a sound of voices outside.  Some one asked if Isaacs were in, and the servant answered.  A tall figure in a gray caftan and a plain white turban stood in the door.

“I never change my mind,” said the stranger, in excellent English, though with an accent peculiar to the Hindoo tongue when struggling with European languages.  His voice was musical and high in pitch, though soft and sweet in tone.  The quality of voice that can be heard at a great distance, with no apparent effort to the speaker.  “I never change my mind.  I am here.  Is it well with you?”

“It is well, Ram Lal.  I thank you.  Be seated, if you will stay with us a while.  This is my friend Mr. Griggs, of whom you probably know.  He thinks as I do on many points, and I was anxious that you should meet.”

While Isaacs was speaking, Ram Lal advanced into the room and stood a moment under the soft light, a gray figure, very tall, but not otherwise remarkable.  He was all gray.  The long caftan wrapped round him, the turban which I had first thought white, the skin of his face, the pointed beard and long moustache, the heavy eyebrows—­a study of grays against the barbaric splendour of the richly hung wall—­a soft outline on which the yellow light dwelt lovingly, as if weary of being cast back and reflected from