Having cleared a way across the tobacco-laden atmosphere, through which can be spied ladies, young and old, inhaling and exhaling with more vigour than grace, they had ensconced themselves in the seat for two which lies isolated from the jumble of chairs and couches.
That seat having the advantage of isolation, your conversation does not gladden the ears of your neighbour nor theirs yours.
You know what that is like—if you don't, well, it's the kind that if written would read in italics: Ayah—kitmutgar—pukka—chotar hazri—syce, with reference, ultra-distinct and emphatic, to Government House, Simla, and my dear old friend, General Methuselah.
Just those little British odds-and-ends which go to the ruling, more or less, of the land of the peacock. Add to that the general, what shall I say, touch-and-go attire of the majority of the members. You know what it is like.
Lace collars over reconstructed tailor-mades; pseudo-suède gloves, chiffon scarfs, generally ropey and heliotrope of hue; odd-coloured jerseys affiliated to odd-cut skirts, plus jangling oriental bracelets and chains, and mix that with a few puckered, leather-hued countenances and you get the club's principal ingredient.
Anglo-Indian.
Anyway the place is conveniently situated, and quite bearable if you can put up with the waiter or the somewhat overdecorated and ever-changing waitress telling you, in front of your guest, that you "can only 'ave cakes and bread-un-butter forrer shilling, every-think-else-is extra."
Cheery, when you may have been doing your best to make an impression!
Of course every member (if she ever gets as far as this) of every ladies' club will here draw her pharisaical skirts about her and edge nearer to her neighbour.
"Did you read this"—quotes—"awfully good, isn't it? Of course it's meant for the Imperatrix—the Toga—the Ninth Century—the Spook."