"Well, Gascoigne was a good sort, and it was just the kind of thing he would do—give up his game to take a kid for a spin into the country. Why, he was making straight for the bazaar." The bazaar was narrow and thronged with ekkas, camels, bullock carts, and cattle, as well as crammed with human beings. As Gascoigne steered carefully in and out of the crowd, a bright idea flashed upon him. There was Narwainjees, a large general shop which sold everything from Paris hats to pills and night lights. He pulled up sharply at the entrance and said, "I say, Angel, I want you to come in here and choose yourself a hat."
"A hat," she echoed. "Oh, Philip, I—I—shall be too happy."
"All right, then," lifting her down as he spoke; "you can try what it feels like to be too happy. I can't say I know the sensation myself."
As the oddly-matched couple now entered the shop hand in hand, the smart, soldierly young man and the shabby little girl, an obsequious attendant emerged from some dark lair. At this time of year business was slack, and the atmosphere of the ill-ventilated premises was reeking with oil, turmeric, and newly-roasted coffee.
"I want to look at some trimmed hats for this young lady," explained her cavalier.
"Oh, Phil," she whispered, squeezing his hand tightly in her tiny grasp, "it's the very first time I've been called a young lady."
"And won't be the last, we will hope," he answered.
"Have some iced lemonade, sir?" said a stout man in a gold skull-cap and thin white muslin draperies.
"No, thank you—but you, Angel—will you have some?" asked her cousin.
"I should love it," and she put her lips greedily to a brimming tumbler of her favourite beverage. Undoubtedly Angel was tasting every description of pleasure to-day.