"No, please don't. She is not coming back till late. She grows restless if she does not go--and I am all right."
In truth Tara had been growing restless of late. Kate, looking up from the game of chess--at which her convalescent gave her half the pieces on the board and then beat her easily--used to find those dark eyes watching them furtively. Zora Begum had never played shatrïnj with the master, had never read with him from books, had never treated him as an equal. And, strangely enough, the familiar companionship--inevitable under the circumstances--roused her jealousy more than the love-making on that other terraced roof had done. That she understood. That she could crush with her cry of suttee. But this--this which to her real devotion seemed so utterly desirable; what did it mean? So she crept away, when she could, to take up the saintly role as the only certain solace she knew for the ache in her heart.
Therefore Kate sat alone, darning Jim Douglas' white socks--which as a better-class Afghan he was bound to wear--and thinking as she did so how incredibly domestic a task it was! Still socks had to be darned, and with Tara at hand to buy odds and ends, and Soma with his knowledge of the Huzoor's life ready to bring chessboards, and soap, and even a book or two, it seemed as if the roof would soon be a very fair imitation of home. So she sat peacefully till, about dusk, hearing a footfall on the stairs halting with long pauses between the steps; her vexation at her patient's evident fatigue overcame her usual caution; and without waiting for his signal knock she set the door wide and stepped out on to the stairs to give him a hand if need be. And then out of the shadow of the narrow brick ladder came a strange voice panting breathlessly:
"Salaam! mem-sahib." She started back, but not in time to prevent a bent figure with a bundle on its back from stumbling past her on to the roof; where, as if exhausted, it leaned against the wall before slipping the bundle to the floor. It was an ordinary brown blanket bundle full of uncarded cotton, and the old woman who carried it was ragged and feeble. Emaciated too beyond belief, as if cotton-spinning had not been able to keep soul and body comfortably together. Not a very formidable foe this--if foe it was. Why! surely she knew the face.
"I have brought Sonny back, Huzoor," came the breathless voice.
Sonny! Kate Erlton gave a little cry. She recollected now. "Oh, ayah!" she began recklessly, "what? where is he?"
The old woman stumbled to the door, closed the catch, and then leaned exhausted upon the lintel, sinking down slowly to a squatting position, her hand upon her heart. There was more in this than the fatigue of the stairs, Kate recognized.
"He is in the bundle, Huzoor. The mem did not know me. She will know the baba."
Know him! As her almost incredulous fingers fumbled at the knots, her mind was busy with an adorable vision of white embroideries, golden curls, and kissable, dimpled milk and roses. So it was no wonder that she recoiled from the ragged shift and dark skin, the black close-cropped hair shaved horribly into a wide gangway from nape to forehead.
"Oh, ayah!" she cried reproachfully, "what have you done to Sonny baba!" for Sonny it was unmistakably in the guise of a street urchin. A foolish remark to make, doubtless, but the old Mai, most of whose life had been passed in the curling of golden curls, the prinking of mother's darlings, did not think it strange. She looked wistfully at her charge, then at Kate apologetically.