We found Leela's father to be a grave, black-robed, kind-faced old man
of an age indeterminate. Sixty, or eighty, I could not have told. In
vigorous health, evidently. His figure was spare, straight, but not
tall. His thick, gray-black hair he wore long to the base of the neck.
He greeted us quietly, with an admirable dignity commanding immediate
respect.
"You are a musician," I said, after we had been talking for a time.
"Brett has told us something about your music here. It must be very
beautiful."
He smiled. "Music is a wonderful thing. It ennobles. There is in it
a touch of something beyond our poor human understanding. A touch
of--what you call Divinity."
"You speak our language very well," I exclaimed.
"A language is not difficult. All minds are similar--that is why music
can make so universal an appeal." His voice was earnest, his eyes
sparkling. It was the subject most absorbing to him.