English Pasha. Is she alone?
Hassan. No, she has a friend, who is not her sister, neither is she her servant.
English Pasha. Give the ladies my salaams and say that I will call upon them.
X and I looked at one another. The meeting of an Englishman under such circumstances is no doubt, in one sense, an excitement; so would it be to meet a tiger in an English country lane. In a jungle, now, one expects a tiger, and, being prepared for his attack, does not resent it. In the same way one is prepared to meet an Englishman on common ground in England, but, in an Asiatic wild, one is not prepared for the onslaught and one is therefore taken at a disadvantage. It was ten days since we had seen ourselves, as the Man would see us, in a glass (and then it was only a missionary's glass), and we had lost nearly all our hairpins in the crevices of the raft.
"Is my face as red as yours?" said X.
The question was evidently the outcome of the thoughts which assailed her mind during the few moments' silence in which we had gazed at each other, wondering whether we really looked like that too.
"Your face is all right," I said, "it's only red in patches; but your hair is disgraceful. How's mine?"
"It's all right," said X, critically, "it's only coming down in patches. But there is no time to do anything; here it is; we must brazen it out."
A young Englishman was boarding the raft; he was very spick and span, shaved, brushed, a clean collar, and polished boots.
"You must excuse me for calling upon you in this dishevelled manner," he said as we shook hands, "but travellers have to come as they are; I daresay you can sympathise," and he glanced round at our ménage.