One night we had a delightful camping-ground on the edge of a lochan well stocked with duck, which Boggley set out to shoot and ended by missing gloriously. We were much embarrassed by a fat old landowner heaping presents on us. He nearly wept when we refused to accept a goat!
All the fortnight we have only met two Europeans—a couple called Martin. I don't know quite what they were, or why they were holding up the flag of empire in this lonely outpost, but they were the greyest people I ever saw.
Finding ourselves in the neighbourhood of Europeans, we called, as in duty bound. The compound round the bungalow had a dreary look, and when we were shown into the drawing-room I could see at a glance it was a room that no one took any interest in. The rugs on the floor were rumpled, the cushions soiled; photographs stood about in broken frames, and the flowers were dying in their glasses. When Mrs. Martin came in, I wasn't surprised at her room. A long grey face, lack-lustre eyes, greyish hair rolled up anyhow, and greyish clothes with a hiatus between the bodice and skirt. "This," said I to myself, "is a woman who has lost interest in herself and her surroundings." Her husband was small and bleached-looking and,
