40 THE MARKHOR 



here an arena of flowers in which butterflies are 

 fighting, and the more they flutter the more gaudy- 

 does the charming picture become ! 



The sky is so blue, the air is so crisp, the trees 

 shine with joy in their glistening green, and a thou- 

 sand little green tongues tell each other sweet little 

 stories. 



The scent of the roses assails our souls, and we 

 seem to hear the nightingale's loveliest songs, ghost- 

 like, whispering music of the soul, Beelzebub's 

 orchestra. Our nerves are made to vibrate agree- 

 ably ; one feels the sweet pain of existence, all the 

 joys and torments of love ; one suffers and enjoys. 



Lady Younghusband, assisted by willing aides-de- 

 camp, surrounded by a flock of red-and-gold-corded 

 satellites, fulfils her office with the skill of a woman 

 of the world and the dignity of the All-powerful 

 One of Cashmere. For each and all she has an 

 agreeable smile, a friendly glance, a gracious nod, a 

 kind word, a little flower or a piece of cake. 



Ah, who comes here ? No other than the 

 Maharaja in all his glory, attended by his suite. 

 He is dressed in quiet colours, and he does not 

 flutter about, but he is assiduous in his attentions 

 to the Resident's wife and touchingly kind to Eileen, 

 her little eight-year-old daughter. When not thus 

 engaged he looks very serious. A sort of eclipse 

 of the sun seems to rest on his features, and an 

 enormous white turban crowns his care-laden head. 



