“Not buffalo butter,” she amended imperiously.
I noticed a number of girls, various soldierly-looking young men, some few matrons and oldish officers with grey hairs, but no really elderly people. There was bridge, badminton in a covered court, tennis, a reading-room and a supply of refreshments. I could not but see that we were observed with interest; who would not look at Mrs. Hayes-Billington? She was unusually animated and in good spirits, and we sat over our tea cups for some time absorbed in our surroundings, enjoying this pleasant change from our damp little “Dovecot.”
As we walked back Mrs. Hayes-Billington remarked:
“To-morrow I will order a conveyance of some sort, we will put on our smartest frocks and pay a round of calls from twelve to two. Bertie got a list from the club baboo. We will begin with the general’s wife, the commissioner’s wife, the padre’s wife, and so on. I think I had better write your name on my cards, and then everyone will know that we are living together and that you are under my wing.”
“Yes,” I assented, “of course, that will be best.”
“I hope they will all be out; this calling is a mere matter of form. As soon as visits have been exchanged, we shall be invited to the general’s at homes, the club dances, picnics and tennis parties, and you will have no end of a good time.”
The following morning, arrayed in our best afternoon frocks, we started out in an ancient victoria to make our round of calls—in short, “to wait upon the station.” The general’s wife and daughter were at home. They proved to be charming people, and the girl, who was my age, and I took to one another on the spot. Our other calls were more or less satisfactory; we dropped our names into the many “Not at home” boxes, and having dispersed twenty cards returned to “The Dovecot” and tiffin, in a condition of complete exhaustion.
The result of our effort was an immediate shower of pasteboards or visitors, and we were soon in the midst of a whirl of hill gaiety. We went to tennis parties, picnics, and dances. My companion was impressively sedate and correct in her manner—this was not the Mrs. Hayes-Billington with whom I had travelled in the Asphodel! She was also an admirable bridge and tennis player, had an unfailing supply of agreeable small talk, and was one of the most popular married women in the station.
My chaperon was an excellent manager, and thoroughly understood Anglo-Indian housekeeping and the art of cutting down the cook’s accounts. We lived carefully and economically, but nevertheless entertained in a quiet way; we gave little tiffins and dinners before a club dance, to young men and girls—though our dining-room was a crush with six. On these occasions the table was beautifully decorated by Mrs. Hayes-Billington, and some of the sweets and the savouries were made by her on a handy charcoal stove in the back veranda. She had a deft way of doing things; everything turned out by her delicate fingers seemed so dainty and complete, whether it was a toque, a pincushion, or some toothsome dish. Although Mrs. Hayes-Billington invariably spoke of herself as “a genteel pauper,” I had a shrewd impression that once upon a time she had been accustomed to wealth and luxury. Her wardrobe was plain and inexpensive, but she possessed beautiful lace, the remains of various gorgeous gowns, a gold-mounted dressing-bag which had evidently seen much service, a string of pearls and remarkably fine diamonds. Also she was a notable dressmaker, and refurbished and altered some of the satins and brocades, with the aid of a clever dirzee; he sat in the veranda from morning till night, sewing, pinning, copying, making marvellous use of his toes for holding breadths of stuff, and was armed with the most formidable pair of scissors I had ever beheld.
The outcome of these exertions were picturesque teagowns and evening toilettes, gracefully worn by Mrs. Hayes-Billington at our weekly bridge party, when young men dropped in after dinner for a rubber and a smoke.