AMANULLAH

heard such ridiculous talk 1 Nevertheless, they kept to
the left.

The Afghan was already being chafed by the chains
of civilisation.

But after a day or so I went up the road in the King's
car to Paghman, and moved into the other hotel run
by the Government.

It was just as bad. Its rooms had that same stale
air of their last occupants. Its staircase, ornate, but
with the paint chipping, was as dirty and as dreary.
The food and the service were as poor. The Afghan
boys as insolent and slow and stupid. Hotel-keeping
had not been a success. That much was evident already.

The place, however, was heavenly. The air was cooler,
until midday, when the sun grew to a heat that made
me long for the shelter of even those dreary rooms.
There would be a chill breeze at sundown, and in the
dawn the dew would be fresh on the grass at the side of
the steep road. I went long walks, up the sides of the
surrounding hills, and right on the summit of the largest
peak, came across an old mullah sitting beneath his
wind-blown and tattered white flags, flying from twisted
branches of trees.

He was gazing quite motionless on the new valley of
Paghman. From his vantage-point, he could see the
pennants waving from the Royal Palace, and the flags
draping the trees in the gardens. He could see the pink
cinema, and the gold and red of the caf& He could see
cars moving up the road to that favoured valley, fol-
lowed by their little skirts of dust. Now and again, in
the evening, he could hear the band playing the same
old tune down in the gardens.

I wondered what he thought of it all. He did not
move when I approached, and only when I stood in
front of him did he turn his eyes to zne. He did not

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