The carriage was off almost before the door slammed.
* * * * *
"Am I to be kept waiting for a week, while a Jat farmer gazes at
cattle on the road?" demanded Yasmini, sitting forward out of the
darkest corner of the carriage and throwing aside a veil. "He cares
nothing for thee!" she whispered. "Didst thou see the jasmine drop
into his lap from the gate? That was mine! Didst thou see him button
it into his tunic? So, Ranjoor Singh! That for thy colonel sahib! And
his head will smell of _my_ musk for a week to come! What--what
fools men are! _Jaldee, jaldee!"_ she called to the driver
through the shutters, and the man whipped up his pair.
It was more than scandalous to be driven through Delhi streets in a
shuttered carriage with a native lady, and even the German's presence
scarcely modified the sensation; the German did not appreciate the
rarity of his privilege, for he was too busy staring through the
shutters at a world which tried its best to hide excitement; but
Ranjoor Singh was aware all the time of Yasmini's mischievous eyes
and of mirth that held her all but speechless. He knew that she would
make up tales about that ride, and would have told them to half of
India to his enduring shame before a year was out.
"Are you satisfied?" she asked the German, after a long silence.
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