“Because from where I sit I can see there’s something interesting going on on the other side, but I can’t make out what. And I’m very anxious to know.” “There you are.” She turned over the frame, and I saw, what I had really guessed it was, Paulos’s bear on the green ground. “Satisfied?” “Oh, that; yes. But my curiosity was directed to the other side of _you_, not to your work.” “Do you think I’m going to turn myself inside out for inspection like I do my embroidery-frame, O Thought-Reader? If so, think again.” “I am.” Mutual silence, broken finally by Aryenis. “And have our thoughts produced great results yet, O Wizard?” There was just a suspicion of curiosity in her tone. “They are beginning to be illuminating.” Another silence, over which curiosity eventually won a decisive victory. “And might a humble princess ask a distinguished warrior what his thoughts are?” “She might. In fact, she actually has. But the term ‘humble’ is new and unfamiliar. I thought princesses, especially this one, only issued commands.” “So they do generally. But this one is at the moment faintly curious, and therefore make-believe humble. That is an unheard-of confession, but now you have it.” “It is, and consequently deserves reward. I’m just beginning to understand why Andros wears a plume of feathers bound with your own mauve.” Such understanding was immeasurably far from my intelligence, but I hoped the lie might draw. “How very clever we are! And why does he wear it?” The slender fingers were poised motionless over the embroidery. “Because he asked you for it.” This seemed a safe statement, but what was to come next, Heaven only knew. “I’d never have forgiven you if you’d said I’d given it him because he didn’t ask for it. Yes, well?” The fingers were busy once more. “Well, that’s all,” I answered. My brain was petering out. “And very lame, too, Harilek,” she said, putting down her work and looking at me. “Andros comes to me with a bunch of feathers which are part of his dress, and asks me to make them up for him, as he’s often asked me to do little things before. Harilek having--as he thinks, secretly--looked at me out of his window--yes, I saw you--spends nearly three weeks in deep thought over the matter. At the end of that time this marvellous thought-reader arrives at the stupendous conclusion that Andros asked me for his plume, and therefore wears it. Am I to admire this staggering piece of reasoning, O Harilek?” Her tone was mocking, but with a spice of tenderness in it, or so I thought. “I--I thought you’d given them to him as--as a special favour,” I stammered. “I told you last time you tried thought-reading that, if any one wanted my favour, he’d have to _take_ it. Your memory is very poor.” “It will be good in future, Shahzadi,” said I humbly. “I’m glad the camels are dead.” Aryenis busied herself with her work once more, ignoring my last remark. Presently she said, without looking up: