“Oh, I know what you think,” I said, with a woman’s swift, safe impertinence. “You think that he was hunting pine-apple cloth to offer to a new god.”
“Or something equally important—to him.”
That was a mean remark; so when I saw my husband come from the Corinthian Theatre archway, I turned ungratefully upon my companion and said:
“ ‘Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard!’ ”
“Are you all right?” said my husband.
“Oh yes,” said I. “Did we have a good house?”
Once afterwards I went into the Burra Bazaar at night. It was Sunday, and my husband was dining with some men. I ordered the gharri at ten. Maggie, my pretty little Madrassi ayah, came out to see me into the carriage.
“Kither, memsahib?” said the salaaming sais.
“Burra Bazaar jao,” I answered.
Maggie caught at the gharri door, “Memsahib, no, no, not go—-must not go,” she cried. “No safe, much harm.”