AMANULLAH

choosing his words meticulously, " that this is going to
be ... to be ... enfin, un jour de gala . . . / "

Wonderful Italy, I thought. The poor, lonely drift
of civilisation landed in the country of the rifle, without
a job, without a penny, without, most urgent of all, a
cafe with a lady or two to romance about. He walked
away, up the street, picking his way and dreaming that
this was Rome. He never wore a topee, but a wide
black hat, with a clip inside to hold the folds together.
He was an orchid in the desert.

An officer clattered up the road. They are strange,
these Afghans. All the fine uniforms you can think of.
Boots that might have come from the Drury Lane
Ruritanian chorus. Gauntlets as of old, and glittering
epaulettes. Spurs like a film actor's, sword clanking.
And all this fine cutlery and men's fancy-wear perched
astride a lame old skin with spavin and a limp. Bridles
that did not fit, and leathers and ' ons that had never
known polish. They go clattering up the road, w4 h
terrific dignity and aplomb, on ponies that would shame
the East End coster.

" And why not ? " they would reply if you had asked
them. " The horse goes, does it not ? And costs little
to feed ? Much less, at any rate, than the Army pays
for its upkeep. . . ."

The crowd is dense now and very redolent. There is
the smell of humanity mounting right up to the doors
of the hotel, mingling there with those strange smells
that cling always to that dreary hall. There is the smell
of the East, which is said to be glamour, but which is
just stale humanity. There is the smell of bodies that
have been many days in the sun and the dust. There
is the smell of disease.

But the workmen have finished decorating the
triumphal arch leading up the .avenue to the Palace.

160