As Mrs. Soames imparted information, I had been using my eyes and absorbing my new surroundings. In comparison with the club at Silliram, this was as a city to a village! Dozens of men and women passed to and fro, some making for the club, some for the morghi-khana. Many of the men were in polo kit or flannels; the women as a rule were remarkably smart, their frocks and hats were undoubtedly imported, and had no connection with the dirzee or bazaar. There were numbers of motor cars as well as carriages in the compound, and the road beyond was thronged with vehicles continually passing up and down.
“Did you notice the three ladies who have just settled themselves at the tea-table?” said Mrs. Soames. “They are always early birds, and are no doubt waiting for bridge or friends. Shall I tell you about them, as you will meet them every day?”
“Yes, do, if you please,” I replied, as I glanced over at the trio. Mrs. Soames gave a little preliminary cough, and began:
“The elderly woman, in the creased tussore costume and toque three sizes too large, is Mrs. Lakin. She is not nearly so old as she looks, but the struggle on small means, separation from her children, unhealthy stations, and the burden and heat of the East, have aged her. She comes of a good old Indian family, and was born in the country. At last she has emerged from her early difficulties; her daughters are married, and her husband commands a regiment. Mrs. Lakin is one of the old type of mem-sahibs, now almost extinct, who speak the language fluently, and know the bazaar prices to a dub. Her servants have grown grey in her service, her animals are fat and well liking; she is the soul of hospitality, and the most unselfish and sincere of women—her one weakness is auction bridge,” and Mrs. Soames concluded this little sketch with a complacent smirk.
“So much for Mrs. Lakin,” I said, “and now for the smart lady with a white aigrette in her hat.”
“That is Mrs. Belmont, a typical modern mem-sahib. Her husband is in the Tea-Green Hussars. She had a huge fortune—made, it is said, in glue—and affects to loathe India, which she scorns as a paradise of the middle-classes—her own milieu as it happens! Unlike Mrs. Lakin she does not know her retinue by sight. To her, one black man is precisely the same as another. Her housekeeping is in the hands of a magnificent butler, who is amassing a fortune; her personal attendant, a Europe maid—such a mistake out here—is amassing admirers, and enjoying the time of her life. Mrs. Belmont is a good many years older than her husband, but wonderfully well preserved, and, considering her class, really quite presentable.”
Here I recognised the inflexible attitude of a county lady towards the heiress of thousands made in glue.
“The third on the chabutra is Mrs. Potter,” continued my companion. “If you listen you can hear her voice, and her loud rollicking laugh. She is also known as the ‘Daily She Mail,’ and ‘Slater’s,’ as she is an inveterate, I may say, official newsmonger. Be sure that you are very careful what you say to her.”
“Yes, but I don’t see how I can give her much news.”
“My dear, you personify news! She will pick your brain in ten minutes; she will know all about your family, your fortune, your tastes, and possibly the price of your hat! It is marvellous how she gets hold of the first tidings of such events as the movements of troops, engagements, quarrels or scandals; and the worst of it is, that in many cases her information is correct. Some say she has a friend at the Post Office; others, that she owes much to her ayah’s circle at the bazaar, or that Joe Potter, her husband, has his ear to the ground in the city—where he is a vague ‘something.’ They live in a fine bungalow in Secunderabad, but have no claim to any social standing. All the same, Mrs. Potter goes everywhere; her card is filled the moment she appears at a dance, she is never ‘left out’ of any entertainment, and people propitiate her with craven attentions. It is much safer to be her friend than her enemy, for she uses her pen as well as her tongue, and supplies sharp unsigned articles to the press. Well, now I have given you an outline of one or two personalities. Here comes Mrs. Wolfe, that handsome dark woman in the yellow car. She is the wife of an official at Chudderghat, and that is a stranger with her. Let us get out now, and hurry over to the chabutra, or we won’t get good seats.”