only grunts in reply, began a book.  She hadn’t read the first chapter when the old gentleman opposite said sternly, “Your friend is fainting,” and turning, Mother was just in time to catch the Russian as she slid to the floor.  She wrestled with her for an hour, reviving her with smelling-salts, and making her comfortable with her air-cushion and rug, distracted all the time by the yelling of young infants somewhere near.  As soon as she could leave her she went to see what was wrong, and found twin-babies making day hideous with their din, while their poor mother lay stretched on a seat, too ill to cope with them.

She was a missionary’s wife, it turned out, on her way home, with no nurse and much malaria, so, of course, Mother had to stay and nurse the twins until luncheon was ready, when another Good Samaritan came and took a turn.  While having luncheon she was hailed by a friend, lately left a widow, who insisted on Mother accompanying her to her compartment, where she wept on her shoulder while telling her all the details of her husband’s last illness; then back again to nurse the Russian and the babies until the journey’s end, when she emerged almost as hot, and crumpled, and exhausted as if she had run behind all the way.

How heartily, my friend, I agree with you about the tiresomeness of balls.  I think it must be old age approaching, but I can’t see any use in going off at the hour when, under happier circumstances, I would be thinking of bed, to a hot, crowded ballroom; and just at present Calcutta is simply congested with balls.  I don’t like things that cost a lot; simple little pleasures please me much more.  To drive out to Tollygunge of an afternoon, have tea and a game of croquet, look at the picture papers, and come quietly home again, is to me the height of bliss.

Tollygunge is a club, some miles out of Calcutta, with a race-course, golf-links, croquet-lawns—­a very delectable spot.  The correct thing is to drive out on Sunday morning and have breakfast out in the open air.  Then one sees everyone one knows, and it is very gay; but I think it is much pleasanter to drive out quietly in the afternoon.

The road to Tollygunge lies partly through the jungle, past clusters of native huts where little chocolate-coloured babies roll and chatter in the sunlit dust.  You know, the jungle is quite near Calcutta.  When I lie at nights and listen to the jackals howling, I remember Kipling’s story, and wonder if we were driven out and the jungle were let in, how long it would be before Calcutta became a habitation for the beasts of the field.

Yesterday I drove out with Mrs. Townley and G., and three tired people we were, too tired even to play the gentle game of croquet; glad to sit still in comfortable chairs on the greensward and steep ourselves in the peace and quietness.

At tea, Chil the kite, hovering in mid-air, watched us jealously.  Suddenly there was a swoop, a dark flutter of wings, a startled squeak from G., and our cake was gone.  That’s India!