“LET’S have them up!” said Mr. Browne.
Mr. Browne was smoking a cigar after breakfast in his own house. There had been a time when Mr. Browne smoked his morning cigar on his way to office, but that was formerly. The department of the tea interest entrusted to Mr. Browne by his firm did not receive his active personal superintendence to the usual extent during the early months of the cold weather of ’91. I am aware of this because my husband is a senior partner. Not that the firm minded particularly—they liked young Browne, and I know that we were rather pleased at the time that he had discovered something in the world besides tea.
The Brownes had been settled some two or three days, and the wheels of their domestic arrangements had been running with that perfection of unobtrusive smoothness that can be fully experienced only in India, so far as I know. The meals had appeared and disappeared as by magic, the rooms had been swept and dusted and garnished while there was no eye to see, their wishes had been anticipated, their orders had been carried out in the night, as it seemed.
“Let’s have ’em up!” suggested Mr. Browne, with reference to the mysterious agents of all this circumstance. Helen wanted to see her servants.
“Bear-er!” shouted the sahib, young Browne.
“Hazur!”[[21]] came the answer, in deep tones, from regions below, with a sound of bare feet hastily ascending the stair.
[21]. Your honour.
“Hazur bolya?”[[22]] enquired the bearer in a subdued voice, partially presenting himself at the door.
[22]. Your honour called.