“I’m afraid not…,” he said somewhat lugubriously.

*   *   *

THE DAUGHTER OF the Himalayas had thought of going out that day with two friends, of walking about and exploring the surrounding scenery. She was sixteen years old; less mature, in a sense, than other girls her age; impulsive, moody, and tending to depend too much on other people’s advice. She spent large tracts of time doing what she considered nothing; for instance, yesterday she’d had a music lesson that had lasted for hours; at other times, she daydreamed, which to her was more fruitful activity. She was preparing—but for what? No exam, certainly. She had two friends, Nandini and Rajeshwari, in whom she confided, but with whom she also quarrelled. And the workings of the palace went on about her (she was hardly mindful of them) with an immense, tiresome regularity.

Up she went the slopes now, followed by her friends.

“Parvati, wait!” said Nandini, panting. The three friends loitered occasionally beneath a tree to gossip, sometimes for as long as half an hour. When they felt hungry, they regretted that they hadn’t brought any food with them, or a ball, so that they could have spent the better part of the day here. They blamed one another.

“You, Nandini!” said Rajeshwari. “You never plan ahead!”