“It’s like an evening in England,” said G.  “Let’s get out and walk home.”  So we told the driver to roko, and G., who had the money to pay him in her hand, got out first; at least I thought she was out, but she had paused, balanced on the step, and my slight push knocked her headlong.  How she did it I don’t know, but her feet remained in the gharry, while her head was in close conjunction to the horses’ hoofs.  I suppose astonishment at this feat must have numbed my finer feelings, for G. insists I bounded over her prostrate form, grabbed the money from her hand, and paid the man before I even inquired if she were killed.  When I had time to look at her I was glad it was getting dark, and that we were in an unfrequented road.  Her white serge costume was mud from head to foot, her hat was squashed out of shape, and even her poor face bore traces of contact with the Red Road.  At first she couldn’t rise, not because she was hurt, but because she was helpless with laughter.  When I did get her on her feet, I found the only injury was a slight cut on the wrist, and great was my relief.

It was a blessing that no native reporters were near, or to-morrow morning we would see in large letters:  SHOCKING AFFAIR IN THE RED ROAD.  ONE EUROPEAN LADY ATTACKS ANOTHER.

My only fear was tetanus.  We have been told such tales of a slight cut causing death that I hurried G. along until we burst breathless into a chemist’s shop in Park Street and demanded “something to keep away tetanus!”

The chemist gave us some permanganate of potash, and for the last hour I have been bathing the wrist, assisted by Bella, who has ruined two of my best handkerchiefs in the process.  The damaged G. has just departed, and I do hope won’t be much the worse.  Such awful things happen here.  You meet people well and strong one day and hear of their death the next.  Death seems appallingly near.  One isn’t given time to be ill.  Either you are quite well or else you are dead.

Now I must stop and go and dress, I see Bella fidgeting.  When this reaches you the Old Year will be very near its end.  I hate to let it go:  it has been such a good old year.  Is it that I forget the unpleasant parts?  Perhaps, but in looking back I seem to remember only sunny days and pleasant things.

To you, my friend, I send every possible good wish for the New Year.  May it be the best you have ever had.  May it bring you health, wealth, and, above all, happiness.

  “The world is so full of a number of things,
  I am sure we should all be as happy as kings.”

Isn’t that a lovable sentiment?

Dec. 19.