chaperons. They all live in the bows, and exist simply to
protect the Sahiblog from all discomfort, and very well they do
it. That is Ahmad Khan by the kitchen. He cooks for us. Salama
owns the boat, and steers her and engages the men to tow us when
we move. And when I arrived he aired a little English and said
piously; The Lord help me to give you no trouble, and the Lord
help you!" That is his wife sitting on the bank. She speaks
little but Kashmiri, but I know a little of that. Look at the
hundred rat-tail plaits of her hair, lengthened with wool, and
see her silver and turquoise jewelry. She wears much of the
family fortune and is quite a walking bank. Salama, Ahmad Khan
and I talk by the hour. Ahmad comes from Fyzabad. Look at
Salama's boy - I call him the Orange Imp. Did you ever see
anything so beautiful?"

I looked in sheer delight, and grasped my camera. Sitting near us
was a lovely little Kashmiri boy of about eight, in a faded
orange coat, and a turban exactly like his father's. His curled
black eyelashes were so long that they made a soft gloom over the
upper part of the little golden face. The perfect bow of the
scarlet lips, the long eyes, the shy smile, suggested an Indian
Eros. He sat dipping his feet in the water with little
pigeon-like cries of content.

"He paddles at the bow of our little shikara boat with a paddle
exactly like a water-lily leaf. Do you like our friends? I love
them already, and know all their affairs. And now for the boat."

"One moment - If we are friends on a great adventure, I must call
you Vanna, and you me Stephen."