Hara Deb was very wise. On reading this letter he thought to himself: "What is this? Anxiety about money? A quarrel with some friend? Debendra Datta? Nothing of the kind. Is this love?"
Kamal Mani received another letter from Surja Mukhi. It concluded thus: "Come, Kamal Mani, sister; except you I have no friend. Come to me."
Kamal Mani was agitated; she could contain herself no longer. She felt that she must consult her husband.
Srish Chandra, sitting in the inner apartments, was looking over the office account-books. Beside him on the bed, Satish Chandra, a child of a year old, was rejoicing in the possession of an English newspaper. He had first tried to eat it; but, failing in that, had spread it out and was now sitting upon it. Kamal Mani, approaching her husband, brought the end of her sari round her neck, threw herself down, bending her forehead to the floor, and, folding her hands, said, "I pay my devotions to you, O great king." Just before this time, a play had been performed in the house, from whence she borrowed this inflated speech.
Srish said, laughing, "Have the cucumbers been stolen again?"
"Neither cucumbers nor melons; this time a most valuable thing has been stolen."
"Where is the robbery?" asked Srish.
"The robbery took place at Govindpur. My elder brother had a broken shell in a golden box. Some one has stolen it."
Srish, not understanding the metaphor, said "Your brother's golden casket is Surja Mukhi. What is the broken shell?"
"Surja Mukhi's wits," replied Kamal.