I perceived then that the boy’s thumb was at the root of the nose between the eyebrows, and that the hands were horizontal. As we rode on I noted with considerable interest other salutations in the market-place. The Mazari peasants salaamed as did the boy. By others, we were greeted by the dignified bow and the “salaam aleicoum” of the Afghan. We returned the bow, allowing a polite smile to irradiate our countenance and answered “W’aleicoum salaam.” [Sidenote: Prince Amin Ullah.] Ere reaching our own house we perceived Prince Amin Ullah, aged three, accompanied by his tutor. Stopping his palanquin the Prince responded to our bow by touching, in the military fashion, his astrakhan hat. After politely enquiring each other’s health--we made no reference to the state of the weather, as is the custom in Occidental cities--we courteously took leave of one another, saluting in the same manner as when we met. The young Prince has the privilege of possessing considerable personal beauty, and, added to that, he is very precocious--added to that he shows--he exhibits, a discernment and wisdom far beyond his years. Many are the wise sayings attributed to this Royal Child (I have forgotten what they were, but they told me he was very clever) so that he is indeed a true son of his august Papa--Sire (I should say). Then we rode in at the porch of our house, and dismounting from our wearied but sprightly steed, we ascended the steps and sought the privacy of our own apartments. I think that winds it up all right. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVII. THE AMÎR AS AN ART CRITIC. The “villain” cook. Mental effect of a cold in the head. Portrait of the infant Prince: a way out of the difficulty. The Amîr’s reflection in the window. The Page boy and the Portrait. The Amîr as an Art Critic. The tea tray. Salaams to the King’s Portrait. The Amîr’s toilet. The start on a shooting expedition. Page boys as riders. The mud of Mazar. A make-shift candlestick: the Armenian’s comments. The sample case of cigars. The Amîr’s handwriting. A sunset. The next day I had an awful cold in my head, so that after I had seen my patients and had visited the Prince I stayed in. I made a sketch of the Armenian, in which he looked precisely like a Salvation Army captain. I don’t know why, for he certainly had not that look himself. Then the Armenian went for a ride. He asked if I wished to go, but I said no. I did not feel up to encountering the eccentricities of my steed. I had taken back into service the cook whom I had discharged for swindling, and presently he came in. He brought lunch, and I thought I might as well eat it as not: it was something to do. I hoped he would not speak to me, for I knew if he did I should pour all the fragments of languages I had learnt on his head, and then he would say, “Bôt achcha, Sahib”--“very good, sir.” Then I should have sprung up and withered him with a look.