"I don't see what you're so upset about," she commented from her large and comfortable pose in the most accommodating chair of which the rather shabby-looking room boasted. "Why, I've seen things just as pretty as that in sixpenny bazaars. I'm sure Anne won't like it. Anne's my type. We both have our spiritual homes in a London suburb—not a garden-suburb, my dear, with nasty modern folk in sandals and djibba—but in the old kind, with good old Victorian plush everywhere. It's just a tragedy that we should have to live in India with queer specimens like the Judge and Tristram." She chuckled. The serene detachment with which she regarded her own weaknesses and the weaknesses of her fellow-creatures had made her an institution in Gaya, and was a good substitute for a talent. Mrs. Bosanquet could not make a joke or tell a funny story without disaster, but she could hold up mirrors for herself and her friends and grimace into them with most excellent results, as far as the gaiety of the station was concerned. It was whispered, however, that the Judge's somewhat halting progress towards higher honours was not a little due to his wife's passion for showing plain but superior people just what they looked like.
Mary Compton continued to regard her treasure with wistful tenderness.
"Tristram will like it, anyhow," she said.
"H'm, poor Tristram!"
"Why 'poor Tristram'?"
"Oh, I don't know—a kind of inspiration. Anne did want him so badly, and now she's got him. It's a real triumph of goodness. Now she can pull long noses at dear, disgraceful Eleanor and be sentimental over dear, disgraceful Richard. Also she can make the place too hot for—for that woman. Altogether a wonderful strategic position for any one quite so harmless as dear, respectable Anne."
There was a distinct and unusual note of asperity in Mrs. Bosanquet's review of the situation, and Mary Compton turned to her with apparent puzzlement. But her eyes were bright and rather defiant, as though she was preparing for a long-expected engagement.
"Whom do you mean by 'that woman'?" she asked, not very steadily.
"My dear, there's only one 'that woman' in Gaya as far as I know. The rest of us are—what are we—ladies! or is that Victorian again?—in fact, I mean 'that woman,' and you're just pretending not to know whom I mean."
"I won't pretend." Mrs. Compton steadied to the attack. "If you mean Sigrid——"