“Oh! There, I’m obliged to consider that you come short again, Mrs. Browne. You’re not in sympathy with the age. I don’t. I’m very respectable myself, but that’s not my fault. I’ve never had the good luck to be married, for one thing; and that, in India, is essential to a career of any interest. But I was once quite an exceptional, quite an original, character on that account, and I’m not any more. Those were the good old times. And to see a beautiful, well-based, well-deserved reputation for impropriety gradually disappear from a social system it did so much to make entertaining is enough to sadden a man at my time of life.”
“Really,” said Helen; and then, with a little bold shivering plunge, “Were the people out here formerly so very—incorrect?”
“Oh, deliciously incorrect! Scandals were really artistic in those days. I often wish I had preserved more of them; my memory’s getting old too. I find myself forgetting important incidents even in those concerning my most intimate friends. And how people spent their money then! Big houses—turned into boarding-houses now—heaps of servants, horses—entertained like princes! Nowadays people live in flats, and cut the cook, and save to the uttermost cowrie, so they can retire a year earlier to drink beer with impunity and eat mutton chops with a better appetite in England. Ignoble age! People—these respectable people—go home second-class now, too, and pretend to be comfortable. Disgraceful, I call it.”
“There isn’t the money there used to be, Sayter,” protested Mr. Peckle. “In those days a man got a decent tulub, and carried it away in a bag. And the vile rupee was worth two shillings.”
Mr. Peckle helped himself to pistachios, and passed the port.
“I believe that explains it!” and Mr. Sayter pressed his lips knowingly together. “It never occurred to me before. Economy and scandals don’t go together. Make a man economical, and he becomes righteous in every other respect. So Government’s to blame, as usual. I think, in view of this, we ought to memorialise Government to drop the income-tax. You would sign, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Wodenhamer?”
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Wodenhamer returned, placidly. “Government ought to get the income-tax out of those rich natives. I think it’s a shame to make us pay.”
“Quite right, Mrs. Wodenhamer! These, Mrs. Browne, are called promotion nuts! They’re useful to effect the permanent removal of your superiors from office. Very nice and very deadly. You must be sure to have them when you ask any of Browne’s firm to dinner. No, I’ve a prejudice against them ever since they were once offered to me in a pudding. I’ve a sad association with them, too.” And Mr. Sayter looked grave.
“Indeed!” said Helen, not quite sure whether she ought to make her tone sympathetic.
“Yes, they always come on just as the ladies are leaving,” twinkled Mr. Sayter; and Helen became aware that Mrs. Wodenhamer was looking at her with ponderous significance. There was the usual gracious rustle, and presently the ladies were comfortably and critically ensconced in the drawing-room, sipping their coffee, at various distances from the indubitable fire. The conversation was not very general. Mrs. Wodenhamer discussed something in a suppressed voice on the sofa, with the lady who approximated her. Helen wondered if it were jharruns. There was apparently some sympathy between the grey bengaline and gold embroidery and a cream crêpe de Chine and pearls, with very yellow hair. A little incisive lady in black who happened to be nearest to Helen, asked if she didn’t think for three men the room was awfully pretty. Helen said she did, indeed; and the little lady in black continued, with an entirely unnecessary sigh, that men certainly did know how to make themselves comfortable, there was no doubt about that. Did Mrs. Browne ever see anything more exquisite than that water-colour on the easel? Mr. Peckle had just bought it at the Calcutta Art Exhibition; Mr. Peckle was a great patron of art and that sort of thing, but then he had to be; he was a director, or something.