G. and I looked at each other rather shamefacedly.
"Did we dream it?" I asked.
G. was rubbing her arm where I had gripped it.
"I didn't dream this, anyway," she said; "it's black and blue."
At breakfast we knew the bitterness of having our word doubted; no one believed our report. They laughed at us and said we had dreamt it, or that we had heard a mouse, and became so offensive in their unbelief that G. and I rose from the table in a dignified way, and went out to walk in the compound.
We are very busy collecting things to take home with us. (Did I tell you G.'s berth had been booked in the ship I sail in—the Socotra—it sails about the 23rd?) The chicon-wallah came this morning and spread his wares on the verandah floor—white rugs from Kashmir, embroidered gaily in red and green and blue; tinsel mats and table centres; pieces of soft bright silk; dainty white sewed work. We could hardly be dragged from the absorbing sight to the luncheon-table.
The Townleys never change their servants, and now three generations serve together. The old kitmutgar is the grandfather and trains his grand-
