He held her in a long close embrace and bent to put his lips to hers. Their lips opened, their tongues sought each other and curled together like two coral red serpents and their bodies quivered again, in unison, though only in the night past they had met complete. Olivia drew away at last, breathless, sighing, and laid her head upon his shoulder.
At this moment they heard a cough at the door. They sprang apart, and Olivia muttered under her breath,
“How do they always seem to know?”
The interruption was innocent, the half-grown boy servant brought in a letter upon a small brass tray and David took it.
“From Darya,” he said, smiling. “I think it is your invitation.”
It was, and they were invited to come to the evening meal that day, entirely Indian, and Leilamani awaited Olivia, while Darya was their loving brother and friend.
Darya was at the door to greet them and Olivia saw at once that tonight he was all Indian. It was more than dress, though the rich Indian garments and the turban of brocade wound about his head enhanced his always unusual beauty. The static poise of his tall figure standing in the carved doorway, the remoteness of his large dark eyes, the dignity of the noble head made him Indian and strange. He put his palms together in the graceful gesture of his people, the symbol, as he had once told her, of their recognition of the divine in every human creature, but tonight the gesture made him seem afar off. She felt shy and ill at ease, and tried not to show what she felt, and failed. For once Darya did not help her.
“Come in,” he said gravely. “Welcome to my house.” He led them into a large formal room hung with brocades. On the floor soft thick rugs were spread under cushions, and he invited them to be seated, and he sat down near them and clapped his hands. Servants came in with trays of fruit juices and honeyed water and sweetmeats, and they set the trays before David and Olivia but not before Darya. He spoke to a servant in a low voice and then motioned to his guests to eat.
David obeyed, quite at ease, Olivia was surprised to see, and she followed his example. She had never tasted such food before and she found it delicious, small tartlets, hot marble-sized balls of vegetable paste, highly seasoned, honey cakes, delicate as rose petals, arranged gracefully upon fresh green leaves.
“This is all for your education, Olivia,” David said after a few moments. “I have never been shown such honor before.”
He glanced at Darya with mild amused eyes, to which Darya responded with a sudden burst of laughter. He removed the turban from his head, set it on the floor beside him and took a tartlet from David’s tray.
“It is quite authentic,” he declared. “If you were an Indian lady, Olivia — and a modern one, for if you were old-fashioned we could not meet at all — you would be received thus.”
“Ah, now, Darya,” David protested.
Darya acceded. “Well, let us say, my father would so receive you. I grant you that I have been spoiled. Also I am lazy. It is so much trouble to observe the old formalities. All that I can do is to try to observe the decencies. What my sons will do when they are grown I cannot tell. By that time—”
He looked toward the door, interrupted by the sound of children’s voices, and he rose to his feet. “Ah, here they come.”
The curtain was parted as he spoke and Leilamani stood there with her children, one on either side. Forever after when David thought of her, he saw her as she was at this moment, a beautiful shy woman, a tall girl as many of the Marathi were tall, her slender figure wrapped in a long Poona sari of palest yellow silk with a brocaded border of heavy gold. She had drawn the end over her soft curling black hair, and her great black eyes glowed in the golden shadows. Her small full lips she had painted scarlet, and in the middle of her forehead was the tiny circle of scarlet that was the sign of her high birth.
He rose to his feet and then Olivia rose and involuntarily she put out her hand to the beautiful Indian girl.
“Come,” Darya commanded his wife, “these are our friends. This is Olivia.”
Leilamani walked forward slowly, her bare feet in gold sandals, and the children clung to her as she came.
“You must shake hands with Olivia, but you need not with David,” Darya commanded. His voice was imperious but his eyes were tender, and she put out a soft narrow hand to Olivia, the nails painted as scarlet as her mouth.
“Say Olivia,” Darya bade her.
“O-livia,” Leilamani said below her breath, accenting the first letter.
“Leilamani,” Olivia replied. She pressed the pretty hand slightly and then released it.
“These are my two naughty boys,” Darya said carelessly. He tumbled the curly dark heads, “This one is five and this one is four. We shall have another one, boy or girl, six months from now.”
The children released their tight hold on their mother’s sari. The elder leaned toward Olivia’s tray and she gave him a tartlet. The small one immediately put out a minute brown palm and in it also she laid a tartlet.
“Enough,” Darya said with authority. “Go away now and play.”
They were obedient immediately, and walked away hand in hand, tartlets at their mouths.
Leilamani seated herself beside Darya, careful not to touch him in public, and Darya watched her with a loving and solicitous pride. “She does very well, eh? This wife of mine, Olivia, was in purdah until she married. Never did she see a strange man. When she went out with other women in the family it was always in a curtained carriage. I remember that when her father ordered an English carriage enclosed in glass, he had the glass painted so that no one could see in and no one could see out. Eh, Leilamani?”
Leilamani nodded, smiling, and did not speak.
Darya coaxed her. “Now Leilamani, you must speak some English. I have been teaching her, Olivia. I have told her that she must learn to speak English as fast as you learn Marathi. That is fair, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure that it is,” Olivia said, smiling at Leilamani. “I think English is easier.”
“Now, now,” Darya cried.
It was all banter and small talk, and David sat listening and taking no part but enjoying it and understanding very well that Darya was gently and patiently helping his wife to forget her shyness and show them her delicately gay self. Slowly she did what he wished, first by gentle movements, then by eating a favorite sweetmeat, then by smiling and then by a soft laugh, until when Darya grew too bold, she gave him a little push with both hands against his cheek.
Olivia was enchanted. She had never seen such a woman as Leilamani, a creature so young, so childish, and yet so profoundly feminine, so sophisticated in her femaleness. Leilamani was all woman and unconscious of any other possible being. She patted her little round abdomen and then touched Olivia’s flat waist with tentative fingers.
“Yes?” she asked softly.
“No,” Olivia said, shaking her head.
“Soon?” Leilamani asked with pretty hopefulness.
“Perhaps,” Olivia said, very uncomfortable.
Darya burst into laughter again. “You mustn’t mind, Olivia! Like all Indian women who have not been spoiled by western life, Leilamani feels her first pride is in being able to have children. It is a proof of her quality as a woman. Indian women had rather be dead than be barren. Is that too hard for you to understand?”
“I think it is,” Olivia said.
She was aware now that Leilamani was watching her with enormous and reflective eyes. She was fearlessly examining Olivia’s face and hair and figure. She put out her hand and felt the stuff of her thin blue silk dress, then she took Olivia’s hand in her left one and stroked it gently with her right one. She smiled frankly and sweetly at Olivia, coaxing her to friendliness.