Coffee was served presently, made by a black-haired Brother who sat in
the corner by the piano and bore a marked resemblance to Bruder
Schliemann, the musical director of thirty years ago. Harris exchanged
bows with him when he took the cup from his white hands, which he
noticed were like the hands of a woman. He lit a cigar, offered to him
by his neighbour, with whom he was chatting delightfully, and who, in
the glare of the lighted match, reminded him sharply for a moment of
Bruder Pagel, his former room-master.

"_Es ist wirklich merkwürdig_," he said, "how many resemblances I see,
or imagine. It is really _very_ curious!"

"Yes," replied the other, peering at him over his coffee cup, "the spell
of the place is wonderfully strong. I can well understand that the old
faces rise before your mind's eye--almost to the exclusion of ourselves
perhaps."

They both laughed presently. It was soothing to find his mood understood
and appreciated. And they passed on to talk of the mountain village, its
isolation, its remoteness from worldly life, its peculiar fitness for
meditation and worship, and for spiritual development--of a certain
kind.

"And your coming back in this way, Herr Harris, has pleased us all so
much," joined in the Bruder on his left. "We esteem you for it most
highly. We honour you for it."

Harris made a deprecating gesture. "I fear, for my part, it is only a
very selfish pleasure," he said a trifle unctuously.