No--it was not an ideal camping-ground, and Jane, whose rosy dreams of
camping in Kashmir had pictured her little white canvas home set up in a
flowery mead by the side of a purling brook, gazed upon the rugged slopes
which rose around--the cold snow gleaming through the shaggy
pine-trees--with a shiver and a distinct air of disapproval.
It grew more than chilly too, as the sun dipped early behind the ridge
that rose jealous between us and the western light, and an icy breeze from
the snow came stealing down the gorge and whispering among the taller
tree-tops in the nullah at our feet.
We were about 1500 feet above the Wular Lake, and snow lay in thick
patches within a few yards of our tents, and had obviously only melted
quite recently from the site of the camp, leaving more clammy mud about
the place than we really required.
As it is reasonable to suppose that the bilingual lady who composes the
fashion columns of the _Daily Horror_ is most anxious to know how the fair
sex was accoutred at our dinner party that night, I hasten to inform her
that Charlotte was gowned in an elegant confection of Puttoo of a simply
indescribable nuance of _creme de boue_--the train, extremely decolletee
at the lower end, cunningly revealing at every turn glimpses of an
enchanting pair of frou-frou putties.
The neat bottines, _a la_ Diane Chasseresse, took a charming touch of
lightness from the aluminium nails which decorated the "uppers" with a
quaint and original Dravidian cornice.
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