‘I SAY!’
‘Sent out from home,’ I said, ever the oracle.
‘Not at all,’ replied Dora. ‘Look, they are Indian subjects. SIMLA subjects,’ she went on, with excitement.
I turned up the catalogue. ‘Ninety-seven, “Kasumti Bazaar”; ninety-eight, “Clouds on the Chor”; ninety-nine, “The House of a Friend”—Lord, what apricot blossoms! Yes, they’re all Simla.’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Dora, ‘who painted them? You’ve got the catalogue!’
‘“I. Armour,”’ I read.
‘“I. Armour,”’ she repeated, and we looked at each other, saying in plain silence that to the small world of Simla I. Armour was unknown.
‘Not on Government House list, I venture to believe,’ said Dora. That in itself may show to what depths we sink. Yet it was a trenchant and a reasonable speculation.
‘It may be a newcomer,’ I suggested, but she shook her head. ‘All newcomers call upon us,’ she said. ‘There in the middle of the Mall we escape none of them. He isn’t a calling person.’
‘Why do you say “he”? You are very confident with your pronouns. There’s a delicacy of feeling—’