THE EPISODE OF THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY After our fortunate escape from the clutches of our too-admiring Tibetan hosts, we wound our way slowly back through the Maharajah's territory towards Sir Ivor's headquarters.

On the third day out from the lamasery we camped in a romantic Himalayan valley--a narrow, green glen, with a brawling stream running in white cataracts and rapids down its midst.
We were able to breathe freely now; we could enjoy the great tapering deodars that rose in ranks on the hillsides, the snow-clad needles of ramping rock that bounded the view to north and south, the feathery bamboo-jungle that fringed and half-obscured the mountain torrent, whose cool music--alas, fallaciously cool--was borne to us through the dense screen of waving foliage.

Lady Meadowcroft was so delighted at having got clear away from those murderous and saintly Tibetans that for a while she almost forgot to grumble.

She even condescended to admire the deep-cleft ravine in which we bivouacked for the night, and to admit that the orchids which hung from the tall trees were as fine as any at her florist's in Piccadilly.

"Though how they can have got them out here already, in this outlandish place--the most fashionable kinds--when we in England have to grow them with such care in expensive hot-houses," she said, "really passes my comprehension." She seemed to think that orchids originated in Covent Garden.
Early next morning I was engaged with one of my native men in lighting the fire to boil our kettle--for in spite of all misfortunes we still made tea with creditable punctuality--when a tall and good-looking Nepaulese approached us from the hills, with cat-like tread, and stood before me in an attitude of profound supplication.