“They say the caste-mark in his forehead is a real diamond,” remarked the Barrister.  “I don’t suppose it is, but at least it is a good imitation.”

Coryndon was not listening to him; he had gone close to the marble rails, and was lighting his little bunch of yellow tapers.  He lighted them one by one, and put each one down on the floor very slowly and carefully, and when he had finished he turned round.

“Mhtoon Pah is the man who has the curio shop?” he asked.

“The very same.  It gives you some idea of his percentage on sales, what?”

Coryndon joined in his laugh, and they went out again into the street of sanctity.  Fitzgibbon was now getting exhausted, for his companion’s desire to “do” the Pagoda was apparently insatiable; and he asked interminable questions that the Barrister was totally unable to answer.

Coryndon seemed to find something fresh and interesting around every corner.  The white elephants delighted him, particularly where green creepers had grown round their trunks, giving them a realistic effect of enjoying a meal.  The handles off very common English chests-of-drawers, that were set along a rail enclosing a sleeping Buddha, pleased him like a child, as did the bits of looking-glass with “Black and White Whisky,” or “Apollinaris Water,” inscribed across their faces.

“That sort of thing seems to attract them,” explained Fitzgibbon.  “In one of the shrines there is a fancy biscuit-box at a Buddha’s feet.  It has got ‘Huntley and Palmer’ on the top, and pictures of children and swans all around it.  Funny devils, I always say so.”

At length he had to drag Coryndon away, almost by main force.

“I’d like to have seen Mhtoon Pah,” he objected.  “He ought to be on view with his chapel.”

“Shrine, Coryndon.  You can see him in his shop,” and they began the descent down the steep steps.

“Look,” said the Barrister quickly, “there is Mhtoon Pah.  No, not the man in white trousers, that’s a Chinaman with a pigtail under his hat; the fat old thing in the short silk loongyi and crimson head-scarf.”

Coryndon hardly glanced at him, as he passed with a scent of spice and sandal-wood in his garments; his attention had been attracted by a booth where men were eating curry.

“It is a curious custom to sell food in a place like this,” he remarked to the Barrister.

“It’s part of the Oriental mind,” replied his guide.  “No one understands it.  No one ever will; so don’t try and begin, or you’ll wear yourself out.”

When they got back to the Club it was already late, and the hall of the bar was crowded with men, standing together in groups, or sitting in long, uncompromising chairs under the impression that they were comfortable seats.

“Hullo, Joicey,” said the Barrister, as he fell over his legs.  “I’m dog-beat.  Been doing the Pagoda with Coryndon.  Do you know each other—?” He waved his hand by way of introduction, and Coryndon took an empty chair beside the Banker, who heaved himself up a little in his seat, and signalled to a small boy in white, who was scuffling with another small boy, also in white, and ordered some drinks.