“I think he’s everything. And I must say for the people here they do read their Kipling. But they don’t talk about him. I don’t believe they know the difference between Kipling and anybody else.”
“Perhaps,” Helen ventured, “they’re tired of him.”
“That’s just where it is. How could anybody get tired of Kipling! You’ll find plenty of gaiety in Calcutta, Mrs. Browne; but you won’t find much—culture!” And Mrs. Toote lifted her eyebrows and twisted her lips into a look of critical resignation.
“Aren’t there any societies?”
“Oh, if you mean the Asiatic, that’s for scientists and people of that sort, you know, and they read awful papers there about monoliths and ancient dynasties and things. You can’t consider that the Asiatic represents any popular tendency. I don’t know anybody that’s fond of Sanskrit. Of course,” Mrs. Toote continued, “I’m speaking generally, and I mean particularly the women out here. There are some clever men in the departments, naturally. One or two of them are my greatest friends, and it is refreshing to talk to them.”
“But are the ladies all frivolous?” Helen asked.
“Oh, dear, no!”
“And the unfrivolous ones—what do they do?”
“They mess about charities, and keep their husbands in their pockets, and write eternal letters to their children in England. I’ve less patience with them than with the other kind,” Mrs. Toote avowed.
“Well,” said Helen, smiling, “I’m not very literary, so I daresay it won’t matter much to me.”