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Nobody ventured to overstep
the threshold, whether from religious fear or because of something
repellent, something almost putrescent, which radiated from his person.
A contingent of Little White Cows, a kind of bodyguard, stood at a
respectful distance beyond, intent upon his every movement. The Master
never stirred. He sat there to be looked at--accustomed to homage almost
divine; beatifically inane. Like the Christians of old, he wore no hat.
The head was nearly bald. A long cloak, glistening with grease stains,
swathed his limbs and portly belly, on which one suspected
multitudinous wrinkles of fat. Two filmy lidless eyes, bulging on a
level with his forehead, stared into vacuity; his snub nose grew out of
a flattened face whose pallor was accentuated by the reflection of the
glittering leaves--it looked faded and sodden, like blotting-paper that
has been left out all night in the rain. Sporadic greenish-grey hairs
were scattered about his chin. The mouth was agape.
On Mr. Keith's appearance he made no sign of recognition.


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