“Oh, I dare say he was,” said Helen, smiling; “he doesn’t play a very strong game.”
“Oh, I wasn’t either. I played abominably. But, of course, I blamed it all upon him; I declared his nerves were affected—on account of you, you know. He admitted there might be something in it,” and Mrs. Lovitt laughed casually. “He says you’re a tremendous swell at it,” she continued inquiringly.
Helen protested, and Mrs. Lovitt went on to say that it didn’t matter much how one played anyway, for tennis was certainly going out—everybody went in for golf now—links all over the place. Did Helen go in for golf, and had she done any cricket before she left England? Mrs. Lovitt had a cousin, Stella Short, who was in the Wilbarrow Eleven. Perhaps Helen had seen her photograph—it had been in all the ladies’ papers.
“What do you think of the climate, Mrs. Browne?”
Helen said she thought it perfectly delightful; she found the glare a little trying.
“Oh, glare! Wait till the hot weather comes. It’s all very well now and will be till March, but the hot weather’s simply beastly; and in the rains—well, in the rains you feel exactly like a dead rat.”
“That must be an extraordinary feeling,” Helen responded, with some astonishment at the directness of the lady’s similes.
“It is—rather! I suppose you’re going to see the Viceroy’s Cup won this afternoon?”
“Yes,” said Helen, “are you?”
“Very much so! I’m one of those happy people who have got a tip. Jimmy Forbes gave me mine. You don’t know Jimmy. He and I are great chums—we’re always out together.” Mrs. Lovitt spoke with virtuous candour. “He’s an awfully pucca[[78]] sort of fellow, is Jimmy—you’ll like him when you know him. He’s a great friend of my husband’s, too,” Mrs. Lovitt added. “Jack thinks a lot of him. And he’s very knowing about horses. How do you get on with the servants? They’ll stick you no end at first—of course you know that. When I began I used to pay three rupees for a leg of mutton. It used to cost us two hundred a month more than our income to live!”