Be swift!' The pallor of hunger suited Kim very well as he stood, tall and slim, in his sand-coloured, sweeping robes, one hand on his rosary and the other in the attitude of benediction, faithfully copied from the lama.
An English observer might have said that he looked rather like the young saint of a stained-glass window, whereas he was but a growing lad faint with emptiness.
Long and formal were the farewells, thrice ended and thrice renewed.
The Seeker--he who had invited the lama to that haven from far-away Tibet, a silver-faced, hairless ascetic--took no part in it, but meditated, as always, alone among the images.

The others were very human; pressing small comforts upon the old man--a betel-box, a fine new iron pencase, a food-bag, and such-like--warning him against the dangers of the world without, and prophesying a happy end to the Search.

Meantime Kim, lonelier than ever, squatted on the steps, and swore to himself in the language of St Xavier's.
'But it is my own fault,' he concluded.

'With Mahbub, I ate Mahbub's bread, or Lurgan Sahib's.

At St Xavier's, three meals a day.