“You know India well?” he inquired insinuatingly.
“I cannot say that,” I rejoined; “but I have been in India for many years. I know it superficially, and from the European standpoint.”
I fished clumsily, and in vain, to discover what he was. An officer? no, he was not like one. A civilian? a traveller? but he parried all my queries with an ease and politeness that was actually amusing. How clever he was! I felt myself a mere child in his hands. In a few moments, he had extracted from me my husband’s position, residence, length of service, prospects. I believe that, if he had chosen to ask, I would have told him the amount of our ages, income, and savings. He was so very agreeable, and so exceptionally interested in me and my affairs, that I was led away to forget that I was now a stout elderly woman of forty-five, and, alas! no longer the station belle I once had been. Presently brisk voices and steps were heard descending the companion-ladder. Enter Charles, looking blue with cold, but in an excellent temper. I saw it in his eye. He has met Buffer, the Sudder Judge, of Kuloo, a first-rate whist-player—whist is Charles’s passion—and they are going to have a split whisky peg between them, as they discuss assessment of land—Charles’s hobby. Mrs. Sharpe, an old neighbour of mine, a plain but clever little woman, and known as “Becky,” sidled into a place beside me, and took a good long look at my opposite neighbour. The tables were filling fast, and people were calling for lemonade and soda-water, for it was after nine o’clock. In the lamplight I recognized a good many familiar faces. The Brownes of Dodeypore; the Goodwins of Punea; Major Caraway of the Pioneers (with a bride). How smart every one looked, especially the young girls, and young married women! What a change it makes in some of my friends, a run home! Where is the old jacket, the joke of the station? Where is Mrs. Mills’ celebrated black hat? I would hardly recognize her. She wears a fringe; she has had something done to her teeth; she has quite a pretty figure! Who would believe she was the dowdy creature I saw at Cheetapore last July? Besides these well-known faces, are many strange ones—globe-trotters, Americans, French, and English, going out to stay with friends, or to do the cold weather in India. Those who sit at our table are no doubt impressed by our intimacy and jargon. Mrs. Sharpe always interlards her conversation with Hindostani, and speaks of her children at school as my “butchas;” “and as to going home again for only three months, as you, Mrs. Paulet” (to me), “persuaded me into doing, ‘cubbi-nay, cubbi-nay, cubbi-nay,’”—i.e. “never, never, never again.”
The dark stranger opposite looked amused, and then she said, “What do you think! I hear there is a native prince on board, enormously wealthy, and travelling with part of his Zenana, and all his jewels!”
The dark stranger still kept his eyes on her, but the expression of amusement died out of his face, and he suddenly resumed his writing.
“Who told you so?” I asked.
“My maid,” she answered triumphantly. “You know I am taking one out; I really found that I could not exist without a European servant.”
“You will have to do so, all the same,” I rejoined, “for if she is at all good-looking, and under fifty, she is bound to marry a soldier.”
“Oh, Dobbs would not look at a soldier!” retorted her mistress indignantly; “she is much too grand!”
“Wait till you see,” I replied. “I have had two, and they were two too many; so particular about their meals, always complaining of native servants and of want of society, insisting on going to sergeants’ balls, and finally wheedling me out of a wedding breakfast. No, give me an honest elderly ayah, with no family, and followers.”