"I shall have great guests to-night--I shall be busy."
"That is thy affair," said Ranjoor Singh, aware that her eyes were
seeking to read his soul. The dropped lids did not deceive him.
"Then, what do you want here?"
That question was sheer impudence. It is very well understood in
Delhi that any native gentleman of rank may call on Yasmini between
midday and midnight without offering a reason for his visit;
otherwise it would be impossible to hold a salon and be a power in
politics, in a land where politics run deep, but where men do not
admit openly to which party they belong. But Yasmini represents the
spirit of the Old East, sweeter than a rose and twice as tempting--
with a poisoned thorn inside. And here was the New East, in the shape
of a middle-aged Sikh officer taught by Young England.
He annoyed her.
Ranjoor Singh's answer was to seat himself, with a dignity the West
has yet to learn, on a long divan against the wall that gave him a
good view of the entrance and all the rest of the room, window
included. Instantly Yasmini flung herself on the other end of it, and
lay face downward, with her chin resting on both hands.
She studied his face intently for sixty seconds, and it very seldom
takes her that long to read a man's character, guess at his past, and
make arrangements for his future, if she thinks him worth her while.
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