A little later, before Mr. Sayter disappeared into his brougham, exploding a vast yawn among the wreaths of his Trichinopoly, Mr. Batcham shook him warmly by the hand, and re-expressed his gratification at the opportunity of meeting so representative a gentleman, to whose opinions such great importance would naturally attach itself. “Joking apart,” said Mr. Batcham, “the candid statement of your views upon many points this evening will be very useful to me.”
“I’m so glad!” said Mr. Sayter.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HELEN BROWNE never could be brought to understand that she was not rich with five hundred rupees a month. Every now and then she reduced the amount—reduced it indeed, with the rupee at one and twopence!—to pounds, shillings, and pence, in order to assure herself over again that it was only a little less than the entire stipend of the Canbury rectory, “and we all lived upon that,” she would argue, as if she had there somewhat unanswerable. It was to her a source of continual and lamentable mystery that they never seemed to find it convenient to open a bank account—it was so unwise not to have a bank account—and yet there was always what George Browne called a “negative difficulty,” always something to be paid first. On the last days of every month when it came to balancing the accounts and finding nothing over, Mrs. Browne regularly cut the bawarchi six pice on general principles, for which he as regularly came prepared. Kali Bagh cooked nothing better than his accounts. Besides this she had her evening gloves cleaned, and saved the price of a ticca dhurzie, which is at least eight annas, every Saturday by doing the family darning, and this, in a memsahib, is saintly. Certainly the Brownes were not extravagant. Helen used to maintain that the remarkable part of it was vegetables being so cheap, but there was probably more force in her reflection that it didn’t really matter much about getting a cauliflower for a penny when one’s ticca gharries came to three pounds. It was much more curious to observe how exactly every month the Brownes’ expenses met their income with perhaps just a trifle now and then to spare, which they might put away if they liked, unreceipted, to be a nest-egg for a comfortable debt in the near future—the fact being that Kasi and Kali Bagh and the rest knew the sahib’s tulub as well as they knew their own, and were all good at arithmetic to the splitting of a pi. It is perhaps a tribute to the perfection of their skill that they never disturbed Helen’s idea that she was very well off. When the rupees disappeared more quickly than usual, she thought of the price of vegetables and was convinced that retrenchments were possible and should soon be effected. Next month Kasi would permit himself to forget various trifling bills, and there would be great prosperity with the Brownes for a fortnight. But invariably there came a time of reckoning when Kasi demonstrated that the income was very nearly equal to the outgo. On the whole Kasi was contented with the sahib’s present pay, having great faith in his prospects of promotion. Barring accidents, Kasi’s speculations upon the financial future of the Brownes were very perfectly adjusted.
It was the elusive bank account that induced them to listen to the Jack Lovitts, who lived in Park-street in a bigger house than they could afford. “We can perfectly well let you have the top flat,” said Mrs. Jack Lovitt at the end of the cold weather, “and it will be that much off our rent besides being a lot cheaper for you. You see we could divide the mallie and the sweeper,” said Mrs. Lovitt, enunciating this horror quite callously, “and that would be an advantage. Then we might have one leg of mutton between us, you know, and that sort of thing—save a lot of bazar.”
“But should you like to have somebody living over your head?” asked Helen, pondering over the idea.
“Of course not,” replied Mrs. Lovitt candidly, “who would? But if we mean to go on leave next year we’ve got to do something. Jack’s eight hundred simply vanishes in our hands. Last month, Helen Browne, our bill from Peliti alone was a hundred and ten—beast! If Jack wouldn’t insist on giving ice to his polo ponies I think we might get on. But you can’t reason with him about it. He’ll come home with a broken neck from that polo one of these days. And we haven’t earned anything approaching a decent pension yet, and my complexion’s absolutely gone,” added this vivacious lady, who liked saying these insincere things to her “young friend Mrs. Browne,” who began at this time to be amused by them.
“I’ve done my little uttermost,” Mrs. Lovitt continued. “This nougat is filthy, isn’t it? I’ll never leave my dear Peliti again!” The ladies were tiffining together in a luxury of solitude. “I’ve sold three frocks.”
“No!” said Helen. “Which?”