That one thing was that
while the face listened reposefully the legs were industriously
dancing like the legs of a marionette. The neat flowers and the
sunny glitter of the garden lent an indescribable sharpness and
incredibility to the prodigy--the prodigy of the head of a hermit
and the legs of a harlequin. For miracles should always happen in
broad daylight. The night makes them credible and therefore
commonplace.
The second sister had by this time entered the room and came
somewhat drearily to the window.
"You know, Adelaide," she said, "that Mr Bingham from the Museum is
coming again at three."
"I know," said Adelaide Chadd bitterly. "I suppose we shall have to
tell him about this. I thought that no good fortune would ever come
easily to us."
Grant suddenly turned round. "What do you mean?" he said. "What
will you have to tell Mr Bingham?"
"You know what I shall have to tell him," said the professor's
sister, almost fiercely. "I don't know that we need give it its
wretched name. Do you think that the keeper of Asiatic manuscripts
will be allowed to go on like that?" And she pointed for an
instant at the figure in the garden, the shining, listening face
and the unresting feet.
Basil Grant took out his watch with an abrupt movement. "When did
you say the British Museum man was coming?" he said.
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