as tiny ripples on the Infinite Ocean of Illusion. Age can not wither nor custom stale that august restfulness. Only the favored few can fathom the wisdom of its quiet. If I believed you were such," he added reluctantly, "I might entrust it to you. I am growing old—and have none to whom I can leave it."
The wistful envy that the aged feel toward those in the prime of life betrayed his earlier firmness. Then Hammersmith saw that the animation in his face had burned out and that he was indeed old. Smiling confidently, he towered over the shriveled little man.
"Name your price," he said.
A shadow of horror crossed the face of the collector.
"To take money in exchange for it would be a sacrilege. Do not speak of that again." He sighed heavily. "Take it as a gift, and in the name of friendship give me a mere fraction of what a king would pay to possess such a treasure—in the name of friendship, never as payment, remember? Five thousand dollars, perhaps. Truly that is a trifle; but I am an old man. I can not guard my treasure after death."
With Hammersmith's check folded carefully in the parchment-like hands, the collector followed his visitor to the entrance of the shop.
"Farewell," he murmured, "you take with you that which is precious. Guard it well, for the wisdom it teaches is priceless. That wisdom you will realize sooner or later—that all is illusion."
Wrapped in revery the collector watched Hammersmith disappear into the writhing crowd that surged perpetually before his dimly lighted shop. Gazing with quiet eye upon the passing pageant, he saw, as in a vision, humanity hopelessly caught in the whirling Circle of Illusion, irresistibly swept into the vortex by its own tumultuous desires.
The silken rustle of a woman's garment aroused him from his meditation. The curtains at the rear of the shop parted noiselessly, and the face of the collector's wife appeared in the aperture. It was a dark, luminous face with heavy-lidded eyes and tiny heart-shaped mouth.
"Abel," exclaimed the woman softly, "thou'rt a marvelous teller of tales; thy lyric tongue hath made us. Soon all this tawdry stock will be sold, and then, praise Allah, we shall set up a shop in Regent Street and buy some real antiques."
The Man Who Limped
(Continued from page 31)
as the law will allow—who pluck their eyebrows, kohl their eyes, dye their cheeks, make scarlet their lips with red grease, and flirt with men. But I am also informed that you have a few females whose becoming modesty forbids these things, and who are, therefore, bright and shining examples of virtue in an otherwise vicious and depraved world.
If I were of your people, effendi, I should never cease extolling the excellence of these modest and reticent maidens who seem too good to be true—but I would select a wife from among the others.
Ho, Silat! Bring the sweet and take the full!
