So I passed
through with scarcely a glance at the busy gayety of the little
streets and the tiny shops where the pretty ladies buy their
rouge and powder. I was attended by my servant Ali Khan, a
Mohammedan from Nagpur, sent up with me by Olesen with strong
recommendation. He was a stout walker, so too am I, and an
inveterate dislike to the man-drawn carriage whenever my own legs
would serve me decided me to walk the sixteen miles to the House
in the Woods, sending on the baggage. Ali Khan despatched it and
prepared to follow me, the fine cool air of the hills giving us a
zest.
"Subhan Alla! (Praise be to God!) the air is sweet!" he said,
stepping out behind me. "What time does the Sahib look to reach
the House?"
"About five or six. Now, Ali Khan, strike out of the road. You
know the way."
So we struck up into the glorious pine woods, mountains all about
us. Here and there as we climbed higher was a little bank of
forgotten snow, but spring had triumphed and everywhere was the
waving grace of maiden-hair ferns, banks of violets and strangely
beautiful little wild flowers.
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