CHAPTER III
As was only to be expected, Miss Baker had brought a photographic outfit with her to the Zenana Mission camp. Flint came across her next evening endeavouring to snap a little bevy of "famine wallahs," new arrivals, squatting with their cooking vessels till their turn for attention should come. There seemed to be no extreme cases among them, and though all were obviously weary, in need of food, none were too exhausted to exhibit lively alarm at sight of the Feringhee woman who waved her hands and pointed her black box at them. They hid their faces, turned their backs, jabbered expostulations, finally rose and scattered like so many frightened fowls, leaving their utensils behind them.
Philip halted, just for a moment. He was in a hurry, on his way to take over a large consignment of incoming supplies.
"Illustrations for a book, I suppose?" he said, smiling at her annoyance with the fleeing little crowd; of course she was ignorant of the belief among the rustic population that when a picture is taken a portion of the spirit goes with it, causing calamity. "Take photographs when they're not looking," he advised.
She turned the camera on to him. "Let me take you. At any rate you can stand still, I imagine. I must take something. I don't know how many plates I haven't wasted over these people. What on earth is the matter with them?"
"I can't stop to explain or to stand still at present. A lot of stuff is arriving and I must go and receive it."
"Come and have tea with us to-morrow, and I'll take you then. Miss Abigail told me to ask you, if you came along. She's over there."
Miss Baker indicated a temporary enclosure in the near distance, where he could see a short, substantial figure trundling about amidst a gathering of women and children.
"Thanks, I'd like to come. I ought to have paid my respects before now." He cantered off, leaving Miss Baker preparing to photograph the abandoned pots and pans.