The path down from the kotal was steep and narrow, and the party was obliged to travel single file. Finally it widened out as they gained the more level valley bottom. Here were patches of cultivation, and scattered among the rocks and stones was a flock of black goats, herded by a wild looking native clad in a weather-beaten sheepskin mantle, and armed with a long jezail with a sickle shaped stock. Two wolfish curs growled at the passers by, while their master uttered a sulky “salaam.” A blue reek of smoke rose from in front of a misshapen black tent, consisting of little more than a hide stretched upon four poles, beneath whose shelter squatted a couple of frowsy, copper-faced women. Two or three more smoke wreaths rising at intervals from the mountain side, and the distant bark of a dog, betokened the vicinity of other wandering herdsmen.
“I never seem to see anything of you now,” said the girl suddenly, during a pause in the conversation, which up till then had been upon the subject of the surrounding and its influences.
“Really? That sounds odd, for I have been under the impression that we are looking at each other during the greater portion of every day, and notably when we sit opposite each other at the not very wide, but pre-eminently festive board.”
“Don’t be annoying. You know what I mean.”
“That we don’t go out chikór shooting together any more. You may remember I foretold just such a possibility on the last occasion of our joint indulgence in that pastime.”
“Well but—why don’t we?”
“For exactly the reason I then foretold. You seem better employed. I amuse myself watching the fun instead.”
She looked at him quickly. Was he jealous? Nesta Cheriton was so accustomed to be spoiled and adored and competed for and quarrelled over by the stronger sex, that she could hardly realise any member of the same remaining indifferent to her charms. As a matter of fact, this one was not indifferent. He appreciated them. Her blue-eyed, golden-haired prettiness was pleasant to behold, in the close, daily intercourse of camp life. He liked to notice her pretty ways, and there was something rather alluring in her half affectionate and wholly confidential manner towards himself. But—jealous? Oh no—no. He had lived too long, and had too much experience of life for that phase of weakness. Nesta was disappointed. She read no symptoms of the same in his face, her ear detected no trace of bitterness or resentment in the tone.
“But I want to go out with you sometimes,” she said. “Why do you avoid me so of late?”
“My dear child, you never made a greater mistake in your life than in thinking that. Here we are, you see, all crowded up together. We can’t all be talking at once—and—I thought you rather enjoyed the fun of playing those two Johnnies off against each other.”