We did get on to the boat, so after all there was no harm done.

I was quite sorry to part with my Americans when we reached Calcutta.  They and their Ali were going on to Benares that night, tired and spiritless.  They shook us both violently by the hand, vowing we were just “lovely people” and that I was a “real little John Bull!”

The home mail was waiting us when we got back, and I read my letters, slept for an hour or two, and then got up and went to a big New Year’s dinner-party, where we had fireworks in our crackers, and sang what G. calls “Oldlangzine.”

Thanks so much for your delightfully long letter.

My wrist aches so I can’t write another word.

Calcutta, Jan. 8.

One more week and we start for the Mofussil and the Simple Life.  The Mofussil, I may remark in passing, is not, as at first I thought, some sort of prophet, but means simply the country districts.

I have been standing over Bella while she laid out all my dresses, telling her which are to be packed carefully and left in Calcutta, and which are to accompany me.  I don’t want to take any more luggage than I can help; as it is, I foresee we shall have a mountain.  Boggley has been begging everyone for the loan of books, as he does not see how I am to be kept in reading matter when there are no libraries within reach.  He accuses me of being capable of finishing two fat volumes in a day, but I shan’t have time to read much if I carry out my great project. I am going to write a book.  You are surprised?  But why?  Other members of the family can write, why not I?  I read in a review lately that John has great distinction of style, so perhaps I have too.  Anyway, I have bought a pile of essay-paper and sixpenny-worth of J nibs, and I mean to find out.  It is to be a book about the Mutiny, the information to be derived from Trevelyan’s book on Cawnpore.  There is room, don’t you think, for a really good book on the Mutiny?

Last night the Drawing-Room was held by the Vicereine, a function that everyone, more or less, is expected to attend.  I went with G. and her sister (one needn’t go with the lady who presents one), and found it most entertaining.  Not being the wives or daughters of Members of Council or anything burra, we hadn’t the private entree, and had to wait our turn in pens, like dumb driven cattle.

It is a much simpler affair than a presentation at home; one need not even wear veils and feathers, and the trains of our white satin gowns were modest as to length.  It was silly to be nervous about such a little thing, but I quite shook with terror.  I think it was the being passed along by A.D.C.’s that unnerved me, but when I reached the last and heard “To be presented,” and my name shouted out, I stotted (do you know the Scots word to stot?  It means to walk blindly—­to stumble—­that and much more; oh! a very expressive word) over a length of red carpet that seemed to stretch for miles, feeling exactly as a Dutch wooden doll looks; saw, as in a glass darkly, familiar faces that smiled jeeringly, or encouragingly, I could not be sure which; ducked feebly and uncertainly before the two centre figures; and, gasping relief, found myself going out of the doorway walking on G.’s train.