He saw and heard the shrieking, chattering laborers digging,
half naked, amid the scattered blocks of sculptured stone and, before
and beneath them, the upper edge of the doorway which they were
uncovering, the door behind which he was to find--who knew what
treasures.
"Mr. Bangs," called Martha from the foot of the stairs, "dinner's
ready."
Galusha was far away, somewhere beyond the Libyan desert, but he heard
the summons.
"Eh?" he exclaimed. "Oh, yes, yes, Miss Martha, I am coming."
As he descended the stairs, it occurred to him that the voices calling
him to dinner across the sands or beneath the palms would be quite
different from this one, they would be masculine and strange and without
the pleasant, cheerful cordiality to which he had become accustomed.
Martha Phipps called one to a meal as if she really enjoyed having him
there. There was a welcome in her tones, a homelike quality, a... yes,
indeed, very much so.
At table he was unusually quiet. Martha asked him why he looked at her
so queerly.
"Eh? Do I?" he exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I wasn't aware. I beg your
pardon. I hope you're not offended."
She laughed. "Mercy me," she said, "I'm not offended so easily. And if
your absent-mindedness could make me take offense, Mr. Bangs, we
should have quarreled long ago. But I should like to know what you were
thinkin' about.
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