“By no means. Although we have no bigotry on the point, it is our custom at Shangri-La to be moderately truthful, and I can assure you that my statements about the porters were almost correct. At any rate, we are expecting the men at or about the time I said.”
“Then you’ll find it hard to stop Mallinson from joining them.”
“But we should never attempt to do so. He will merely discover – no doubt by personal experiment – that the porters are reluctantly unable to take anyone back with them.”
“I see. So that’s the method? And what do you expect to happen afterwards?”
“Then, my dear sir, after a period of disappointment, he will – since he is young and optimistic – begin to hope that the next convoy of porters, due in nine or ten months’ time will prove more amenable to his suggestions. And this is a hope which, if we are wise, we shall not at first discourage.”
Conway said sharply: “I’m not so sure that he’ll do that at all. I should think he’s far more likely to try an escape on his own.”
“Escape? Is that really the word that should be used? After all, the pass is open to anyone at any time. We have no jailers, save those that Nature herself has provided.”
Conway smiled. “Well, you must admit that she’s done her job pretty well. But I don’t suppose you rely on her in every case, all the same. What about the various exploring parties that have arrived here? Was the pass always equally open to them when they wanted to get away?”
It was Chang’s turn now to smile. “Special circumstances, my dear sir, have sometimes required special consideration.”
“Excellent. So you only allow people the chance of escape when you know they’d be fools to take it? Even so, I expect some of them do.”
“Well, it has happened very occasionally, but as a rule the absentees are glad to return after the experience of a single night on the plateau.”
“Without shelter and proper clothing? If so, I can quite understand that your mild methods are as effective as stern ones. But what about the less usual cases that don’t return?”
“You have yourself answered the question,” replied Chang. “They do not return.” But he made haste to add: “I can assure you, however, that there are few indeed who have been so unfortunate, and I trust your friend will not be rash enough to increase the number.”
Conway did not find these responses entirely reassuring, and Mallinson’s future remained a preoccupation. He wished it were possible for the youth to return by consent, and this would not be unprecedented, for there was the recent case of Talu, the airman. Chang admitted that the authorities were fully empowered to do anything that they considered wise. “But should we be wise, my dear sir, in trusting our future entirely to your friend’s feeling of gratitude?”
Conway felt that the question was pertinent, for Mallinson’s attitude left little doubt as to what he would do as soon as he reached India. It was his favorite theme, and he had often enlarged upon it.
But all that, of course, was in the mundane world that was gradually being pushed out of his mind by the rich, pervasive world of Shangri-La. Except when he thought about Mallinson, he was extraordinarily content; the slowly revealed fabric of this new environment continued to astonish him by its intricate suitability to his own needs and tastes.
Once he said to Chang: “By the way, how do you people here fit love into your scheme of things? I suppose it does sometimes happen that those who come here develop attachments?”
“Quite often,” replied Chang with a broad smile. “The lamas, of course, are immune, and so are most of us when we reach the riper years, but until then we are as other men, except that I think we can claim to behave more reasonably. And this gives me the opportunity, Mr. Conway, of assuring you that the hospitality of Shangri-La is of a comprehensive kind. Your friend Mr. Barnard has already availed himself of it.”
Conway returned the smile. “Thanks,” he answered dryly. “I’ve no doubt he has, but my own inclinations are not – at the moment – so assertive. It was the emotional more than the physical aspect that I was curious about.”
“You find it easy to separate the two? Is it possible that you are falling in love with Lo-Tsen?”
Conway was somewhat taken aback, though he hoped he did not show it. “What makes you ask that?”
“Because, my dear sir, it would be quite suitable if you were to do so – always, of course, in moderation. Lo-Tsen would not respond with any degree of passion – that is more than you could expect – but the experience would be very delightful, I assure you. And I speak with some authority, for I was in love with her myself when I was much younger.”
“Were you indeed? And did she respond then?”
“Only by the most charming appreciation of the compliment I paid her, and by a friendship which has grown more precious with the years.”
“In other words, she didn’t respond?”
“If you prefer it so.” Chang added, a little sententiously: “It has always been her way to spare her lovers the moment of satiety that goes with all absolute attainment.”
Conway laughed. “That’s all very well in your case, and perhaps mine too – but what about the attitude of a hot-blooded young fellow like Mallinson?”
“My dear sir, it would be the best possible thing that could happen! Not for the first time, I assure you, would Lo-Tsen comfort the sorrowful exile when he learns that there is to be no return.”
“Comfort?”
“Yes, though you must not misunderstand my use of the term. Lo-Tsen gives no caresses, except such as touch the stricken heart from her very presence. What does your Shakespeare say of Cleopatra? – ‘She makes hungry where she most satisfies.’ A popular type, doubtless, among the passion-driven races, but such a woman, I assure you, would be altogether out of place at Shangri-La. Lo-Tsen, if I might amend the quotation, removes hunger where she least satisfies. It is a more delicate and lasting accomplishment.”