It is rather a bored little community, Manpur.  I think they are all pretty sick of each other, and one can’t wonder.  Even an Archangel would pall if one met him at tea, played tennis with him, and sat next him at dinner almost every day of the year; how much more poor human beings—­and Anglo-Indian human beings at that.  Taken separately they are delightful, but each assures us that the others are quite impossible.  They unite in being shocked at our living in such discomfort, and have all invited us to stay; but it isn’t worth while to change our quarters.  Besides, we are going away for the week-end to some friend of Boggley’s who lives about thirty miles from here.

A nice little young civilian is at present calling on us.  He came to pay his duty call, and he and Boggley became so deep in Oxford talk, and found so many mutual friends, that we asked him to stay to dinner.  Autolycus told me in a stage whisper that the Sahib could easily stay as the dak-bungalow cook was very good, and that we would get quite a Calcutta dinner.  His pride, as he bore in the dishes, was beautiful to see; and it was a good dinner, though rather tinny.

Manpur, Thursday 12th.

This delayed letter must be posted before we leave by the night train for our next trek.  We came back late last night from Misanpore after a nice but very queer time.  On Saturday, when, after a long dusty drive of eight miles from the station, we arrived at the bungalow of Boggley’s friend, there was every evidence that no visitors were expected.  Just think!  Boggley had never let him know we were coming; the poor man was ignorant of the fearful joy in store for him.

I gripped Boggley by the arm.  “Wretch,” I hissed in his ear.  “Why didn’t you write?  What sort of man is he?  Will he hate having me?”

“Qui hai?” bellowed Boggley to the deserted-looking bungalow.  Then, turning to me, “Oh yes, he’ll hate it,” he said calmly; “but he’ll be pleased afterwards.”  I could have shaken him.  Making me play the part of a visit to the dentist!

When our host appeared, very dishevelled (it turned out that he was feeling far from well and had been lying down), and beheld me, dismay was written large on his countenance.  He glared round in a hunted way, and it looked as if he were going to make a bolt for it; but he remembered in time his manhood, and faced me. (His name is Ferris, and he is tall and bald, and about forty, and so shy that when he blushes his eyes water.) Somehow, we all got inside the house, and Boggley and I sat in the drawing-room while Mr. Ferris rushed out to summon his minions and make arrangements.  We heard a whispered discussion going on about sheets, and I longed to tell my distracted host that I had all my bedding with me in a strap; but the thought that he might consider me “ondelicate,” like Mr. Glegg, deterred me.  Presently I was shown into what, only too evidently, was our host’s own room, for a servant snatched away some last remaining effects of his master—­a spatter-brush and a slipper—­as I entered.  I sat down on the bed and pondered over what I would have felt had I been a man, and shy, and seedy, and a strange female had been suddenly shot into my peaceful home.