The rest of my impressions I shall keep for my next letter.  I have written this much to give you an idea of my surroundings, and you see I have taken your interest for granted.  Are you bored?  Of course you will say you are not, but if I could see your face I should know.

The home mail arrives here on Sunday, when people are having what they call a “Europe morning,” and have time to read and enjoy their letters.  When you wrote you had just had my mail from Marseilles.  How far behind you are!  It was too bad of me to write such pitiful letters, but I think I was too miserable to pretend.  Now I am very well off, and no one could be more utterly thoughtful and kind than old Boggley.  I am sure I shall never regret coming to India, and it will be something to dream about when I am a douce Olivia-sit-by-the-fire.

You speak of rain and mud and fog, and it all seems very far away from this afternoon land.  The winter will soon pass, and, as you nicely put it, I shall return with the spring.

Calcutta, Nov. 21.

It is the witching hour of 10 a.m. and I am sitting in my little ante-room—­boudoir, call it what you will—­immersed in correspondence, Boggley, hard-worked man that he is, has departed for his office followed by a kitmutgar carrying some sandwiches and a bottle of soda-water, which is his modest lunch.  Really a Government servant’s life is no easy one.  He is up every morning by six o’clock, and gets a couple of hours’ work done before breakfast.  His office receives him at ten and keeps him till four, when he comes home and has tea, after which we ride or drive or play tennis somewhere.  A look in at the Club for a game of billiards, more work, dinner, and, if we are not going to a dance or any frivolity, a quiet talk, a smoke, a few more papers gone through, bed, and the long Indian day is over.  All day chuprassis, like attendant angels, flit in and out bearing piles of documents marked Urgent, which they heap on his writing-table.  I begin greatly to dislike the sight of them.

So you see I have of necessity many hours alone, at least I have some, and I would have more if G. didn’t live within a few minutes’ walk, and every morning, armed with a large green-lined parasol and protected by her faithful topi, come round to pass the time of day with me.  Her sister, Mrs. Townley, is a very nice woman and kindness itself to me.  I can say, like the Psalmist, that goodness and mercy follow me.  I started from London knowing no one, yet in twenty-four hours I was fast friends with G. and afterwards with quite a lot of people on board.  I thought when I landed in Calcutta I would be a stranger in a strange land and have no one but Boggley, “instead of which” I have G. quite near, and Mrs. Townley says I must come to them any minute of the day I want to; and there are others equally kind.  You don’t want me to give you a detailed account of Calcutta, do you?  It wouldn’t interest you to read