“Unfrequented places! O George! Any snakes or tigers?”
“Snakes—a few, I dare say. Tigers—let me see; you might hear of one about fifty miles from there.”
“Dreadful!” shuddered Helen, rubbing her cheek upon George’s convict crop. “But what is the attraction, dear?”
“The air,” responded he, promptly substituting his moustache. “Wonderful air! Think of it, Helen—a thousand feet up!”
But Helen had not been long enough in India to think of it. “Air is a thing one can get anywhere,” she suggested; “isn’t there anything else?”
“Seclusion, darling—the most perfect seclusion! Lots to eat—there’s always the railway restaurant if the dâk-bungalow gives out, capital air, nice country to walk over, and not a soul to speak to but our two selves!”
“Oh!” said Helen. “It sounds very nice, dear——” And so they agreed.
It was an excellent dâk-bungalow without doubt, quite a wonder in dâk-bungalows. It was new, for one thing—they are not generally new—and clean, they are not generally clean. There had been no deserted palace or disused tomb for the government to utilize at Patapore, so they had been obliged to build this dâk-bungalow, and they built it very well. It had a pukka[[3]] roof instead of a thatched one, which was less comfortable for the karaits but pleasanter to sleep under; and its walls were straight and high, well raised from the ground, and newly white-washed. Inside it was divided into three pairs of rooms, one in the middle and one at each end. You stepped into one of your rooms on the north side of the house and out of the other on the south side, upon your share of the south veranda. The arrangement was very simple, each pair of rooms was separate and independent, and had nothing to say to any other.
[3]. Made of brick and mortar.
The furniture was simple too, its simplicity left nothing to be desired. There were charpoys[[4]] to sleep on, travellers brought their own bedding. In one room there were two chairs and a table, in the other a table and two chairs. There was nothing on the floor and nothing on the walls. There was ample accommodation for the air of Patapore, and no other attraction to interfere with it. I don’t know whether we have any right to accompany the Brownes to Patapore, and to stay with them there; it is certain that we would not be welcome, if they knew it. It is equally certain that nobody else did—they were, as young Browne had predicted, supremely alone. At seven in the morning the old khansamah in charge of the place gave them chota hazri[[5]] in the room with the table in it, bringing tea in a chipped brown teapot, and big thick cups to drink it out of, one edged with blue and the other with green, and buttered toast upon a plate which did not match anything. He was a little brown khansamah, with very bright eyes and a thin white beard and a trot—he reminded one curiously of a goat. His lips were thin and much compressed; he took the Brownes solemnly, and charged them only three rupees a day each for their food, which young Browne found astonishingly moderate, though Helen, when she worked it out in shillings and pence, and considered the value received, could not bring herself to agree with this.