"No, no! they’ve had enough of those two places. They’ll get news across to the Arabian coast and lie quiet for some months. Come along and have ’chota-hazri’," he said, changing the subject. "You needn’t say anything about those Afghans or about them coming along here. My wife knows nothing about it, nor does Miss Borsen; I don’t want them to know." He took me up to his house and sent off the telegrams for the Admiral. The old head boy brought us tea, bread and butter, and fruit, and I quite enjoyed myself, except that the old gentleman was wearing a yellow-silk turban, and every time he came out on the veranda it caught my eye, and I thought he was Miss Borsen. However, I might have spared myself the trouble of constantly turning my head and expecting to see her, because she was not even living in that house, but with her brother. Afterwards, on my way down to the beach, I saw her there, a slim little figure on the shore, dressed all in white, with a big white helmet almost covering her yellow hair, looking strangely out of place among a motley crowd of Arabs, Persians, and Zanzibaris, loading and unloading the dhows. "Her brother ought not to let her come down alone," I thought angrily. She had a camera with her, and was taking pictures of the natives and their camels. She smiled when she saw me, and every mortal thing I had in my head seemed to go out of it. I couldn’t think of any blessed thing to say except that it was a fine morning. Then she laughed until I grew red and uncomfortable. It was a relief to shout across to the "_B.A._" for the dinghy, but whilst it was coming she made me pose for my photograph. "I have a snapshot of your little steamboat (boat!—mind you); I must have one of its captain too," she said, as if it was a great compliment to be photographed by her. If there is one thing I hate more than another it is having my photograph taken. Especially did I hate this, because she arranged me and rearranged me, with Griffiths in the dinghy for a background, and all the time he was grinning at me till I felt the idiot I looked. She never mentioned the scar on my forehead, so I took my helmet off so that she must see it, and then all she said was: "Do put your hat on again, and turn side face; that nasty scratch quite spoils the picture." Hat! Nasty scratch! Spoils her picture! My word, what irritating things girls are! I’d gone ashore wanting her to see the wound, perhaps to say something nice about it, and hoping that she would treat me, for once, as though I were a man; and she’d made me cover it up in order not to spoil her picture, and made me stand there, like a baby, whilst she took the snapshot.