“Harold is later than usual; he is probably having a religious conversation with Kripá Dé, whom he thinks almost, if not quite, a Christian in heart. I have only seen the lad once or twice, but I am exceedingly struck with his appearance. Kripá is as fair as an Englishwoman, only the complexion has in it no tinge of colour; it is, I hear, one not uncommon among Kashmiris. Kripá Dé has a delicacy of feature and grace of—There is the step of my Harold! no more writing to-day.
“Tuesday.—O Lizzie, I little thought how this long letter was to end,—how my bright fancies, my eagerly pursued occupation, were to bring nothing but disappointment! I have only too much leisure for writing to-day, and must relieve my mortified spirit by telling my troubles to you.
“I was almost impatient for Harold to go out to his work, so eager was I to resume mine. I hurried off to my little house, after calling to Mangal to prepare a fresh supply of paste, and asking Nabi Bakhsh to get some one to bring plenty of logs for a fire (coals are unknown in Talwandi). I knew that I had been imprudent in not having had a fire lighted on Friday, and that I had brought fever on myself and trouble on my husband by neglecting this simple precaution. I will not be so foolish again.
“Well, to go on with my story. I turned the key in the lock of my door, pushed it open, and entered the room where I had left my fancy paper, some on the wall, some on the floor. Yes, I entered with eager step, and then—stood simply aghast. Ugly dark damp-marks had completely marred what I, with such labour, had put up but three days ago; and worse still, my pictures, my choice pictures, were almost completely spoilt. I felt inclined to sit down and cry; but to have given such way to my vexation would have been unworthy of Harold’s wife. It was a comfort, I thought, that the larger portion of the beautiful wall-paper had not yet been put up; that, at least, should be kept to be used after the house should have become quite dry. I went up to my large roll (which, you remember, I had left on the brick floor), and saw—oh, how shall I describe what I saw with mingled astonishment and disgust! The paper, with its roses and golden trellis, was, as it were, alive with odious little white maggots. It almost sickened me to see them; I could not touch one of the horrid things. I called loudly for Nabi Bakhsh, and when he appeared I could only point to the disgusting mass on the floor. ‘Dimak,’ he said calmly, as if there were nothing astonishing in the sight. Then Nabi Bakhsh walked leisurely to the wall, and knocked down a quantity of branching excrescences of something like mud, in shape a little resembling coral, but of the colour of mire. This, too, was alive with grubs, and again the Moslem said, ‘Dimak.’ There is no danger of my ever forgetting that hateful word.
“As I stood almost petrified with this my first introduction to white ants, one of the plagues of India, I was startled by the unexpected entrance of Harold. He had returned for some book, and seeing the door open had walked in.
“Harold asked no questions; he saw at a glance what had happened. ‘Call the mihtar [sweeper], and have all this cleared away at once,’ he said to Nabi Bakhsh. Then gently taking my hand, my husband led me out into the open veranda. I was too much agitated to be able to speak. I attempted to smile, but failed.
“‘I am very sorry to find the white ants in possession already,’ said Harold. ‘We must fight them in this bungalow, as we have fought them in my father’s. Happily a good supply of tar is left; some shall immediately be put round the lower part of the walls, and below the rafters, or the wood-work will become the prey of greedy little foes.’
“‘The rafters!’ I murmured faintly; ‘would the dimak bring down our very roof over our heads?’
“‘If we gave them time and opportunity they would do so,’ was the not consolatory reply. ‘But be assured, my Alicia, that active measures shall be taken at once.’
“And what was the result of these active measures, Lizzie? I have just come in from looking at my poor, certainly misnamed, Paradise. All my pretty paper has been pulled down and cleared away, and men are putting a funeral band of hideous black all round the upper part of the walls, along the rafters, and a few inches above the floor. There is a bespattering of the tar in unsightly spots even where it is not supposed to be needed. The whole effect is horrible, and my new bungalow smells like an old steamer. I do not know whether to laugh or to cry.”