“You are enemies?”
“Not exactly enemies, but I do hate the way he gobbles his food and bullies the servants; and then he says such rude things about England—perhaps it’s only done on purpose to make me angry? He declares we are a wretched, rotten, played-out old country, going down the hill as hard as we can fly. He is narrow-minded, too; so arrogant—the Germans can do no wrong, the English can never do right. I am telling dreadful tales, am I not? All the same, he has an English wife, and is simply devoted to Aunt Flora; nothing is too good for her. It is really funny to see this rough overbearing man so gentle and thoughtful. But then, she is a dear!”
“Oh, is she?”
“You shall see for yourself. You must come to tea on Sunday. I am sure I may invite you; Aunt Flora is so kind and sympathetic, and has a look of mother.”
“I’ll come all right, if you think she’ll not be durwaza bund.”
“No, she is ever so much better, but the last few years has been more or less an invalid.”
“What is her particular illness? Is it fever?”
“Fever and neuralgia. Some days she will lie in a darkened room and see no one but her ayah; she won’t even admit me, though occasionally I do slip in; she has had a bad attack lately, but is now convalescent. Oh, I see Mrs. Muller moving at last; now we shall be going.”
“I’m afraid you’ve found this show a hit dull.”
“Not at all—it has been a most interesting sight; I don’t know when I have enjoyed myself so much.”