sweep of her hand took in not only Winifred and myself, but the
general's stately residence, which to blaspheme in Peshawar is
rank infidelity.

"By George, I would give thousands to feel that! I can't get out
of Europe here. I want to write, Miss Loring," I found myself
saying. "I'd done a bit, and then the war came and blew my life
to pieces. Now I want to get inside the skin of the East, and I
can't do it. I see it from outside, with a pane of glass between.
No life in it. If you feel as you say, for God's sake be my
interpreter!"

I really meant what I said. I knew she was a harp that any breeze
would sweep into music. I divined that temperament in her and
proposed to use it for my own ends. She had and I had not, the
power to be a part of all she saw, to feel kindred blood running
in her own veins. To the average European the native life of
India is scarcely interesting, so far is it removed from all
comprehension. To me it was interesting, but I could not tell
why. I stood outside and had not the fairy gold to pay for my
entrance. Here at all events she could buy her way where I could
not. Without cruelty, which honestly was not my besetting sin -
especially where women were concerned, the egoist in me felt I
would use her, would extract the last drop of the enchantment of
her knowledge before I went on my way. What more natural than
that Vanna or any other woman should minister to my thirst for
information? Men are like that. I pretend to be no better than
the rest. She pleased my fastidiousness - that fastidiousness
which is the only austerity in men not otherwise austere.