“Chaffing, no! This station is overrun with ladies. The good old days when a white woman was a rara avis departed sixty years ago. Even within the last ten, matters have gone from bad to worse—in the way of imported spins. People then had out their relations—now they open their arms to all the world, and take in lodgers—I mean paying guests! Guests, whose one idea is that the great Indian Empire is merely run in order to afford facilities for flirtation and matrimony: and it is not the girls themselves who are the plague—it is the chaperones, and mothers, and aunts.—Oh, bring it up!” he added in Hindustani, as a smart peon, with a brass badge on his belt, salaamed at the foot of the steps, letter in hand.
This letter Lovett tore open, cast his eyes over it, and called out “Salaam,” and the messenger, with another profound salutation, resumed his shoes, and clattered out of sight.
“Now here is a sample,” said Lovett, holding out the “chit” to Bobby, who made a long arm for it, and presently read aloud:
“My dear Mr. Lovett,
“Mother desires me to write and remind you that you dine with us to-morrow—this time no excuse will avail you. I am sorry to say I have again given my tiresome pony a sore back; will you lend me ‘Pinkatee’?—my saddle fits her as if it were made for her. I will send over the syce at three o’clock this afternoon. Do not trouble to answer, but say ‘Salaam’ if you are going to be a dear. I do hope I shall see you at the polo.
“Ever yours most sincerely,
“Totty A. Tompkins.”
“I shouldn’t call you a dear, but an ass!” announced Bobby, crumpling up the note. “Why do you lend the animal?”
“Because it is less trouble in the long run——”
“But riding a man’s pony is almost the same as announcing that you are ‘walking out.’”
“They all ride my ponies—so there is safety in a multitude!”