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Or possibly a lunatic; one of those harmless enthusiasts who go about the world imagining themselves to be the Pope or the Archangel Gabriel. However that might be, he said not another word, but took to reading his breviary in good earnest, for the first time. The boat anchored. Natives poured out in a stream. Mr. Muhlen drove up alone, presumably to his sumptuous hotel.
In regard to his recent mode of life, the document contained the suggestive fact that Muhlen had not taken his midday meal at the hotel for some time past. He was strangely fond of going out in the late mornings, the proprietor averred; it might be, to bathe; he returned at about five in the afternoon after lunching, presumably, in some small restaurant by the shore.
Why could not van Koppen see the beauty of such dreamings? And yet, he argued, if the man does seclude them in this fashion supposing they really exist who can blame him? No woman is safe on Nepenthe with persons like Muhlen about.
And he found he had bothered himself long enough about Muhlen; there were so many other interesting things on earth. A contemptible little episode! He decided to relegate it into the category of unimportant events. He was glad that the whole affair had remained in the background, so to speak, of his Nepenthean experiences. It seemed appropriate.
People talked about it none the less. They discussed Don Giustino, his past career and present prosperity. As for Mr. Muhlen he was already almost forgotten. So was the Commissioner's lady. Madame Steynlin alone brought herself to say a few kind words about both of them. She was ready to say kind things about anyone. The magic of love!
"Heard the news? Don Giustino's coming over." "The old assassin. What of it?" "Good business! One in the eye for Mali what's his name. There'll be the hell of a row. We ought to be grateful to Muhlen for this amusement." "Damned if we ought. Unless he got himself killed on purpose to amuse us. And even then it would have amused me more if he had paid me back those seventeen francs."
Muhlen, with heightened colour in his cheeks, was losing money in so brilliant a fashion that everyone swore he must be on the verge of coming into a legacy or making some COUP with a rich woman. In another room the so-called bawdy section, presided over by the dubious Mr. Hopkins, were discussing topics not adapted to polite ears.
That pink-faced old drunkard known as Charlie was the only person who made any signs of recognizing him. He half rose from his chair with a genial: "Hello, Bishop " and instantly collapsed again. Mr. Muhlen was there; he bowed rather distantly.
It was his panacea his unvarying formula for every emergency, scandalous or otherwise. Something must be done, he avowed. And from the card-table came two approving echoes the voices of Mr. Muhlen and Signor Malipizzo, who did not care tuppence about the fountain but never lost an opportunity of expressing their public approval of Mr. Parker's words and actions.
After being effusively greeted by the host they understood one another perfectly and forced to eat a quantity of some pink-looking stuff which he could not resist although knowing it would disagree with him, His Worship, left to his own devices, hobbled along in pursuit of his new friend Muhlen.
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