GUINEVERE THE MYSTERIOUS 125 
There are idols all about me—or so it would ap- 
pear to a missionary; for my part, I can think 
only of the wonderful face of the old Lama who 
sits near me, a face peaceful with the something 
for which most of us would desert what we are 
doing, if by that we could attain it. Near him 
are two young priests, sitting as motionless as 
the Buddha in front of them. 
After a half-hour of the strange thing that we 
call time, the Lama speaks, very low and very, 
softly: 
“The surface of the mirror is clouded with a 
breath.” 
Out of a long silence one of the neophytes re- 
plies, “The mirror can be wiped clear.” 
Again the world becomes incense and doves,— 
in the silence and peace of that monastery, it 
may have been a few minutes or a decade,—and 
the second Tibetan whispers, “There is no need 
to wipe the mirror.” 
‘When I have left behind the world of inhar- 
monious colors, of polluted waters, of soot- 
stained walls and smoke-tinged air, the green of 
jungle comes like a cooling bath of delicate tints 
and shades. I think of all the green things I have 
Joved—of malachite in matrix and table-top; of 
