George assured her, "and don't let
this worry you, will you? I was smoking on the terrace. I'll be
there for a while yet. Good night," he said from the doorway.
"Good night," said Olivia. "Good night--and, oh, I thank you."
St. George's expectation of having a talk with the old man was,
however, unfounded. Old Malakh led the way to his room--a great
place of carven seats and a frowning bed-canopy and high windows,
and doors set deep in stone; and he begged St. George to sit down
and permitted him to examine the sealed tube filled with little
particles that looked like nickel, and spoke with gentle irrelevance
the while. At the last St. George left him, feeling as if he were
committing not so much an indignity as a social solecism when he
locked the door upon the lonely creature, using for the purpose a
key-like implement chained to the lock without and having a ring
about the size of the iron crown of the Lombards.
"Good night," old Malakh told him courteously, "good night. But yet
all nights are good--save the night of the heart.
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