Yet when it came it had not much effect, greatly to poor Khôjee's disappointment. Even the quivering, sobbing keene of her neighbours and relations did not rouse Noormahal to any proper display of grief, and--as the groups whispered--how could you expect to lose tears unless you shed them? Was it not a distinct defiance of Providence to deal, even with sorrow, as if it were your own absolutely? Finally, was not _khushki_ (dryness) one of the fundamental faults in things created?--the other being _gurm-ai_ (heat). Khâdeeja Khânum, however, was quite sufficiently _tur_ and _tunda_ (damp and cool) to satisfy the most rigid standard of etiquette; and what with the real cardamoms, the new trousers, a pennyworth of orange-blossom oil which Khôjee had brought with the 'Essence of Happiness,' and a most encouraging report of prevailing sickness and death amongst mutual acquaintances brought by the visitors, the old lady had quite a flush on her withered cheeks by evening, and admitted to her sister, when the latter helped her to undress, that the whole thing had really gone off very well. Nevertheless she was rather fatigued on the next day. The day after that, Khôjee, returning from the purchasing of some lemon-grass oil, wherewith to wile away the aching in the back, caused, no doubt, by the muscular effort of a continual whimper, found her seated on the string bed in the centre of the lonely courtyard, attired in the green satin trousers and concomitants, waiting, so she said, for the bridal party to arrive. How stupid Khôjee was! Of course, having regard to her deformity, it was only natural she should take little heed of such things. But all were not made that way, and it was high time the bridal party did come. It seemed, indeed, as if an undue interval had elapsed since the betrothal day, when--if Khôjee would remember--she wore pink, not green. Anyhow she, _Shâhzâdi_ Khâdeeja Khânum, was not one to stand any slackness in a bridegroom's ardour, and if he did not appear that day, she would choose another. She did. Death claimed her as his before twelve hours were over; almost before poor Noormahal, roused at last from her absorption in grief, had realised she was ill. It seemed incredible! The Nawâbin's big eyes, larger, darker than ever--encircled as they were by great shadows which seemed to have crept down the oval of her face, making it pointed, pinched--turned to Aunt Khôjee, even at the moment of death, in bewildered reproach and regret. 'And thou hast called none in to send her soul forth with prayers? Oh, Khôjee! that was ill done. Nay? I mean no blame for thee alone, kind one, but for us both--yet we did not know--we did not dream--did we?' Khôjee stood for a second, speechless, rigid, her eyes staring, yearning towards the familiar face over which the awful unfamiliar look was creeping; then, with a wild cry, she threw up her arms and grovelled at Noormahal's feet.