“Albut hona sucta!”[[83]] said he, going upon his own knees before the refractory divinity. Helen stood by with superior interest and knitted brows, after the manner of women.
[83]. Without doubt it may be!
“Dya-silai HUM ko-do!”[[84]] enunciated the sahib.
[84]. Give ME the matches.
Deep relief became visible upon the faces of the bearer, the kitmutgar, and the mallie. The sahib was omnipotent.
Mr. Browne presently discovered that the wicks had dropped into the oil reservoirs. He proceeded to take the newly imported fireside upon his lap, so to speak, and unscrew it, his wife remarking meanwhile that she supposed it was quite safe. He rescued the wicks, but Helen has since mournfully given me to understand that certain of the garments he had on were never tenable afterwards.
Then they applied a match to engender the sacred fire upon their hearth, and it was engendered in two long narrow flames that flared up in yawning tin chasms on either side and sent before them a wreathing blackness of smoke which escaped rapidly through the holes on the top for the saucepan and the gridiron.
“It is cheerful,” said Helen insistently. “But it seems to need a stove pipe after all,” she added, in doubt.
“Not at all,” said her husband, “only to be turned down.” So he turned it down to a wavering blue and yellow line, and closed the doors.
“Finish hai?” inquired the bearer, and the sahib said yes, it was finished, so the bearer, the kitmutgar and the mallie repaired to the simpler solaces of sentimental organisations less subtly devised than ours.