Two long cushioned chairs. Two for meals, and a Bokhara
rug, soft and pleasant for the feet. The interior was plain
unpainted wood, but set so that the grain showed like satin in
the rippling lights from the water.
That is the inventory of the place I have loved best in the
world, but what eloquence can describe what it gave me, what its
memory gives me to this day? And I have no eloquence - what I
felt leaves me dumb.
"It is perfect," was all I said as she waved her hand proudly.
"It is home."
"And if you had come alone to Kashmir you would have had a great
rich boat with electric light and a butler. You would never have
seen the people except at meal - times. I think you will like
this better. Well, this is your tiny bedroom, and your bathroom,
and beyond the sitting - room are mine. Do you like it all?"
But I could say no more. The charm of her own personality had
touched everything and left its fragrance like a flower - breath
in the air. I was beggared of thanks, but my whole soul was
gratitude. We dined on the bank that evening, the lamp burning
steadily in the still air and throwing broken reflections in the
water, while the moon looked in upon them through the leaves.
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