Even embraces.
His wife! Mon Dieu, his wife!
The aheuried imagination prostrates itself at the remembrance of the splendours Orientals of the Lady Cyril—the very respectable the Lady Wollobie.
That was in Simla. All things are possible in Simla. Even wives. In those days I was—what you call—a Schnobb. I am now a much larger Schnobb. Voila the only difference. Thus it is true that travel expands the mind.
But let us return to our Wollobies.
I admired that man there with the both hands. I crawled before the Lady Wollobie—platonically. The man the most brave would be only platonic towards that lady. And I was also afraid. Subsequently I went to a dance. The wine equalled not the splendour of the Wollobies. Nor the food. But there was upon the floor an open space—large and park-like. It protected the dignity Wollobi-callisme. It was guarded by Aides-de-Camp. With blue silk in their coat-tails—turned up. With pink eyes and white moustaches to ravish. Also turned up.
To me addressed himself an Aide-de-Camp.
That was in Simla. To-day I do not speak to Aides-de-Camp.
I confine myself exclusively to the cab-drivaire. He does not know so much bad language, but he can drive better.
I approached, under the protection of the Aide-de-Camp, the luminosity of Sir Wollobie.