The duenna folded her sheet round her with great dignity. "Thy wit is sharp, Kareema! 'Tis as well; for thou wilt need it to protect thy nose! The mems have many clothes; God knows how many, or how they bear them when even the skin He gives is too hot. They are sad-coloured, these mems, with green spectacles serving as veils. Not that they need them, for they are virtuous and keep their eyes from men truck. Not like bad bold hussies who dance--"
"'Tis not true," cried Kareema shrilly. "Thou sayest it to please Feroza. Inaiyut holds they are houris for beauty, and he knows."
In the wrangle which ensued the London postmark revolved between earth and heaven as the letter turned over and over in Feroza's listless fingers.
"I wish I knew," she muttered with a frown puckering her forehead. "He saith they are so wise, and yet--"
Mytâben paused in the war of words and laid her wrinkled old fingers on the girl's head. "Plague on new-fangled ways!" she grumbled half to herself. "Have no fear, heart's life! they are uncomely. But for all that, 'tis a shame of the Meer to leave thee pining."
A hand was on her mouth. "Hush, Mytâben! 'Tis a wife's duty to wait her lord's pleasure to stay or come."
There is a dignity in submission, but Kareema laughed again, and even old Mytâb looked at the girl compassionately. "For all that, heart's life, 'tis well to be sure. Certainty soothes the liver more than hope. So thou shalt see a mem. For lo! the book-readers have come to this town, and one passeth the door every eve at sundown."
"Oh, Mytâb! why didn't you tell us before?" cried both the girls in a breath.
"Because 'tis enough as it is, to keep two married girls straight, with never a mother-in-law to make them dance to her tune," grumbled the nurse evasively. "Hai, Kareema! I will tell thy father-in-law the Moulvie,[[18]] and then 'twill be bread and water."
"Bread and water is not good for brides," retorted Kareema with a giggle. "And I will see the mems too, or I will cry, and then--" She nodded her head maliciously.