the shelter of the curtain: but I am still unwed and must sing until the
end comes."

"How can I seek help of my grandsire? Have I not disgraced his name by
adopting this life? And were I mean enough to ask his favour, would he not
first insist that I become once more 'pardahnashin'? I cannot live again
behind the screen, for too long have I been independent. The filly that has
once run free cares not afterwards for the stall and bridle. It has been an
evil mistake, Saheb, but one not of my making. I sometimes loathe the
lights, the tinsel, the bells, aye even the old songs; for they remind me
of what I might have been, but for another's fault, and, of what I am. You
ask of Mimi's future? So long as I live, she never shall play a part in
this work. Mated with a good man of mine own faith she will never know
regret. That is my great wish, Saheb. The issue lies with Allah."

So the tale ran on with its accompaniment of song, its suggestion of
regret. Once in the middle of a ballad a funeral passes in the street
below. The mourner's chant sounds above the bourdon of the tom-tom, the
wail of the saringis. "Hush, hush" cries Nur Jan, "let the dead pass in
peace. It is not meet that the song of the dancing-girl should be heard
upon the final journey." One more refrain, one more question on the mystery
of her birth, and we ask permission to depart, offering at the same time
some small token of our approval of her songs, to which she replies in the
words that commence this chapter. We catch a last glimpse of her, bidding
us good-bye in the gentle manner that tells its own tale, and of Mimi
crooning to herself and trying to push a much-crumpled playing-card,--the
Queen of Hearts,--into the cinglet of her small pyjamas.