“You see, I do not wear trousers in my own country,” confided Aryenis. “Skirts!”
“Nice short ones,” I reminded her. “They are indeed nice, as you said.”
“Compliments again, Harilek! But I won’t quarrel with them this time. They might be sincere now, whereas last time—”
“Whereas last time they were of even greater value really since your clothes were against you.”
“Your clothes,” she reminded me.
Then food was brought in, a stew of mutton, fat-tailed sheep, I think; some hill partridges, and afterwards sweet cakes with an amber-coloured wine. Forsyth and I missed our forks badly, but we managed to get through the meal without disgracing ourselves.
“You’re not coming with us this afternoon through the caves in those clothes, I imagine, Aryenis?” said I.
“Indeed, I am not, Harilek. I’m going to stop in and rejoice my feminine soul in contemplating pleasing garments and getting the desert out of my hair. I very nearly had food brought in to me, but I thought, as it was your first meal in our country, I would come and watch you after seeing you live on Firoz’s food in the desert. What did you call that stuff that pretended to be bread? ‘Cheptis,’ or something like that? That’s ungrateful of me, though, considering the trouble Firoz took over me always. But he was not meant to be a cook.”
“I said he was a soldier.”
“Yes; I can imagine him as that. He makes me think of some of my father’s older soldiers. Very gruff and very solid, but very kind withal. But not skilled overmuch in the pleasant things of life.”