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AMANULLAH

he was a pleasant young man. And he unfolded his
troubles.

In the annexe, it appeared, there was a particularly
well-favoured young Russian girl with a gramophone.
I did not know whether the course of love depended on
the gramophone, but there had been a difficulty about
a new American record which the girl had received. It
was, said the young man, quite unintelligible to them,
though they had played it over and over again, slowly
and painstakingly, and had burrowed in many English
dictionaries to find the meaning of the song. Would I
help?

Through the garden we went to the Annexe, and the
young man called out hopefully to an open window on
the first floor. He had his reward.

There peeped out a mop of black hair, a pair of huge
eyes, and a smiling red mouth. Long discussion fol-
lowed, and the head disappeared.

Then the peace of the sunny afternoon was broken
by the harsh twang of America. The strange words,
smart and sophisticated, came ripping out to us in the
garden. It was a mixture of the Bowery and the Bronx.
It was almost unintelligible to English ears—at least
ears that for some years had not been accustomed to
the new universal language. But, as best I could, I
told the Russian youth the meaning of the strange tune,
sung by two nasal comedians, and the gist of their song
was translated before me into Russian, to cause the
black eyes above us to dance with merriment, the lips
to part with laughter, and the black hair to shake with
glee.

And that was all the information I got from the
Russian Legation. The journalist thanked me, I
thanked him, we thanked the girl, and we shook hands
on it* I hope, at any rate, that love in the pleasant

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