lis is
not--what you say.

BEELER.

Well, he's a crank at the best of it. He's worked your aunt up now so's
she can't sleep. You brought him here, and you've got to get rid of
him.

_Exit by outer door, with inarticulate grumblings, among which can
be distinguished._

Hump! Ulrich Michaelis! There's a name for you.

ANNIE.

What's a fakir?

_Rhoda does not answer._

Cousin Rho, what's a fakir?

RHODA.

_Humoring her._

A man, way off on the other side of the world, in India, who does
strange things.

ANNIE.

What kind of things?

RHODA.

Well, for instance, he throws a rope up in the air, right up in the
empty air, with nothing for it to catch on, and then--he--climbs--
up--the--rope!

ANNIE.

Don't he fall?

_Rhoda shakes her head in portentous negation._

_Steps are heard descending the stairs. The child fidgets
nervously._

ANNIE.

Listen! He's coming down!

RHODA.

Yes, he's coming down, right out of the blue sky.

ANNIE.

_In a panic._

Let me go.

_She breaks away and retreats to the hall door, watching the stair
door open, and Ulrich Michaelis enter. Thereupon, with a glance of
frightened curiosity, she flees. Michaelis is a man of twenty-eight
or thirty, and his dark, emaciated face, wrinkled by sun and wind,
looks older. His abundant hair is worn longer than common. His
frame, though slight, is powerful, and his way of handling himself
has the freedom and largeness which come from much open-air life.
There is nevertheless something nervous and restless in his
movements. He has a trick of handling things, putting them down
only to take them up again immediately, before renouncing them for
good. His face shows the effect of sleeplessness, and his gray
flannel shirt and dark, coarse clothing are rumpled and neglected._

RHODA.

_As he enters._

Good morning.

MICHAELIS.

_Watching Annie's retreat._

Is--is that child afraid of me?

RHODA.

_As she adds the finishing touches to the breakfast table._

Oh, Annie's a queer little body. She has her mother's nerves. And then
she sees no one, living here on the back road. If this dreadful fog
ever lifts, you'll see that, though we're quite near town, it's almost
as if we were in the wilderness.

_The stair door opens, and an Indian boy, about sixteen years old,
enters. He is dressed in ordinary clothes; his dark s