A short-lived breath of evening air caught up the passionate murmur of his voice and mingled it with the rustling of the Sacred Tree whose restless, shimmering, silver leaves hung above his head. He understood their whisper as he listened. It was the accents of the god to whom he prayed, and all the poetic mysticism of his nature responded to the call. "Oh, Lord Brahma, Creator, I thank thee!" he repeated; then turned, and with head still bowed, passed back through the high marble gates. CHAPTER V ARCHIBALD TRAVERS PLAYS BRIDGE The ayah put the last touches to Beatrice Cary's golden hair, drew back a little to judge the general effect, and then handed her mistress the handglass. "Is that well so, missy?" she asked. "Missy look wonderful to-night--wonderful!" Beatrice examined herself carefully and critically, without any show of impatience. Only a close observer would have noticed that her eyes had the strained, concentrated look of a person whose thoughts are centered elsewhere than on the immediate subject. "Yes, that will do," she assented, after a moment. "You have done extra well to-night. You can go." "Not help missy with dress?" "No, you can go. I shall only want you again when I come back." The ayah fidgeted with the garments that lay scattered about the room, but an imperative gesture hastened her exit, and she slipped silently from the room, drawing the curtains after her. Beatrice watched her departure in the glass, and then, turning in her chair, looked at the languid, exhausted figure upon the couch. "Now, if you have anything to say, mother, say it," she said. "We are quite alone." "I have a great deal to say," Mrs. Cary began, in a tone of extreme injury, "and first of all, I must ask you not to interrupt me in the way you did just now before the--the what-do-you-call-it?--the ayah. I can not and will not stand being corrected before my own servants." "I did not correct you," Beatrice returned coldly. "I stopped you from making disclosures to ears which know enough English to understand more than is good for either of us, and whose discretion is on a par with that of our late friend, Mary Jane. It seems impossible to make you realize that English is not a dead language." "You are very rude to me!" Mrs. Cary protested, in high, quavering tones that threatened tears. "Very rude! Beatrice, you ought to be ashamed--" "I am not rude. I am only telling you the simple truth." "Well, then, you are not respectful."