G. came
to tea and suggested that afterwards we should go for a drive in a
_tikka-gharry_, it being a more amusing mode of conveyance in G's eyes
than her sister's elegant carriage. So we drove up and down the Red
Road and along the Strand until the darkness came. It rained this
morning--the first rain I have seen in this dusty land--making the
roads quite muddy and the air damp and cold.
"It's like an evening in England," said G. "Let's get out and walk
home." So we told the driver to _roko_, and G., who had the money to
pay him in her hand, got out first; at least I thought she was out,
but she had paused, balanced on the step, and my slight push knocked
her headlong. How she did it I don't know, but her feet remained in
the _gharry_, while her head was in close conjunction to the horses'
hoofs. I suppose astonishment at this feat must have numbed my finer
feelings, for G. insists I bounded over her prostrate form, grabbed
the money from her hand, and paid the man before I even inquired if
she were killed. When I had time to look at her I was glad it was
getting dark, and that we were in an unfrequented road. Her white
serge costume was mud from head to foot, her hat was squashed out of
shape, and even her poor face bore traces of contact with the Red
Road. At first she couldn't rise, not because she was hurt, but
because she was helpless with laughter. When I did get her on her
feet, I found the only injury was a slight cut on the wrist, and great
was my relief.
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