The latter were evidently tourists, with a guide. They sat on a rough
bench, their backs to the door; and the Chinaman was perched on a smaller,
higher seat, in front of a rack hung with several odd, brightly painted
Chinese musical instruments. He was playing solemnly and delicately on an
object like a guitar gone mad--so thought Angela--bringing forth a singing
sound, small and crystalline; but, glancing over his shoulder as the
newcomer appeared, at once he snatched up another curious object, smiling
at Angela, as much as to say the change was a compliment to her. The
instrument was of the mandolin type, covered with evil-looking snake-skin,
and having only a few strings, which the player's fingers touched lightly.
Each gave out a separate vibration, though all blended together with a
strange, alluring sweetness, and, underneath, Angela thought that she
could hear, faintly, a wicked impish voice hissing and chuckling, as if
something alive and vilely clever were curled up inside the
instrument--perhaps the spirit of the snake whose skin had been stolen.
The fat man nodded to the children who stood opposite on a piece of
matting, their silk-clad backs against the wooden wall, which was
panelled with paintings, very cheap, and not beautiful like those of the
restaurant.
Pages:
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285