‘That means when they’ve departed farther off,’ said Cyril. ‘India’s coral or Greenland’s icy, don’t you know; not Bournemouth. Besides, we don’t know what her wishes are.’
‘She SAID’—Anthea was very much inclined to cry—‘she said, “Get Indian things for my bazaar;” but I know she thought we couldn’t, and it was only play.’
‘Let’s get them all the same,’ said Robert. ‘We’ll go the first thing on Saturday morning.’
And on Saturday morning, the first thing, they went.
There was no finding the Phoenix, so they sat on the beautiful wishing carpet, and said—
‘We want Indian things for mother’s bazaar. Will you please take us where people will give us heaps of Indian things?’
The docile carpet swirled their senses away, and restored them on the outskirts of a gleaming white Indian town. They knew it was Indian at once, by the shape of the domes and roofs; and besides, a man went by on an elephant, and two English soldiers went along the road, talking like in Mr Kipling’s books—so after that no one could have any doubt as to where they were. They rolled up the carpet and Robert carried it, and they walked bodily into the town.
It was very warm, and once more they had to take off their London-in-November coats, and carry them on their arms.
The streets were narrow and strange, and the clothes of the people in the streets were stranger and the talk of the people was strangest of all.
‘I can’t understand a word,’ said Cyril. ‘How on earth are we to ask for things for our bazaar?’