“Then you’ll either go in for society or philanthropy—that’s the way everybody ends up. You are going to the Drawing-Room next Thursday?”
“I think so.”
“Well, immediately after you must write your names down in the Government House books. Then they ask you to everything, you see. Don’t put it off,” advised Mrs. Toote, on the point of departure. “Don’t put it off a day.”
In a quarter of an hour the Wodenhamers came—Colonel and Mrs. Wodenhamer, a large lady and a generously planned gentleman. The smallest and slightest of Helen’s wicker chairs creaked ominously, as Colonel Wodenhamer sat down in it with an air of asserting that he wasn’t the weight you might think him. As to Mrs. Wodenhamer, her draperies completely submerged Helen’s cotton cushions upon the sofa. Colonel Wodenhamer had mutton-chop whiskers and a double chin and a look of rotund respectability that couldn’t be surpassed in Hyde Park on Sunday. He was not a fighting colonel, and in the adding up of commissariat accounts there is time and opportunity to develop these amplitudes. Mrs. Wodenhamer matched him more perfectly than is customary in the odd luck of matrimony, and had a complexion besides, which the Colonel couldn’t boast. The complexion spread over features generously planned, and a smile that contained many of the qualities of a warm sunset, spread over both. Helen wondered in vain to which of Mrs. Toote’s two social orders they belonged, for as soon as Colonel Wodenhamer had explained how it was he had come to call on a week-day—Colonel Wodenhamer made this a point of serious importance—Mrs. Wodenhamer led the conversation into domestic details. It wandered for a time among pots and pans—enamelled ones were so much the best—it embraced all the servants, took a turn in the direction of the bazar, and finally settled upon jharruns.
“You’ll find them so troublesome!” said Mrs. Wodenhamer.
“I don’t know what they are,” said Mrs. Browne, reflecting upon the insect pests of India.
“Don’t you, really! It’s a wonder you haven’t found out! They’re towels or dust-cloths—anything of that sort. Almost every servant must have his jharruns. You have no idea how they mount up.”
“I suppose they must,” returned Helen, and turned to Colonel Wodenhamer with intent to venture something about the weather.
“I don’t see how you’ve got on without them so long!” Mrs. Wodenhamer remarked, glancing round with involuntary criticism. “I assure you I give out weekly in my house no less than five dozen—five dozen!”
“That’s a great many,” Helen agreed. “A very fair passage, I believe, Colonel Wodenhamer—thirty-one days.”