It was rather a difficult week-end.  I have met men who were difficult to talk to, but never one like Mr. Ferris, who, while willing, indeed anxious, to be agreeable, so absolutely annihilated conversation.  It wasn’t till dinner on Sunday night that I discovered a subject that really interested him—­London restaurants.  He grew quite animated as we discussed the relative merits of the Ritz, the Carlton, the Savoy, the Dieudonne.  I think that long, thin, bald, gentle bachelor spends all his spare moments—­and he must have many in lonely Misanpore—­thinking about his next leave and the feasts he will then enjoy.  Yet the odd thing is he isn’t greedy about food.  I think it must be more the lights and music and people that attract him.

Mr. Ferris and Boggley were away all Sunday, and I spent the whole day with a volume of Dana Gibson’s drawings, the only book I could find.  I did go for a short walk, but the dust was nearly knee-deep, and, except the little bungalow and outhouses, there was absolutely nothing to see.

Yesterday again Boggley had to go and inspect some place, so it was decided he would bicycle there, and then pick me up at some station we had to change at on our way to Manpur.  I drove to the station in Mr. Ferris’s little dogcart—­alone.  Mr. Ferris said he was so sorry he had an engagement, but I think myself it was simply that he couldn’t face the eight miles alone with me.

The groom, instead of sitting behind, ran behind; and as the pony was fresh he had to run pretty fast.  There were two roads—­a pukka or made road, and a cutcha road, on which the natives walked and drove their ekkas.

Autolycus and the chuprassis were waiting at the station, and put me into a carriage.  They went straight on to Manpur with the luggage instead of waiting at the station where we changed trains.  It was ten o’clock when I got out of the train, and Boggley had said he would be no later than half-past eleven; then we would have luncheon, and get the one o’clock train to Manpur.  I went into the refreshment-room to ask what we could have for luncheon,

“Ham and eggs,” said the fat babu promptly.

“Nothing else?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the babu; “mixed biscuits.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised.

“Certainlee,” said the babu.

Then I went outside to read a book and watch for Boggley.  My book was one of those American novels where every woman is—­to judge from the illustrations—­of more than earthly beauty.  I got so disheartened after a little when everyone I met had a complexion of rose and snow (besides, I didn’t believe it) that I shut it up.  I found it was nearly twelve o’clock, and Boggley hadn’t arrived.  I waited another quarter of an hour, and then went in and ate some ham and eggs.  One o’clock, and the train came and went, but still no trace of the laggard.  Outside the station the blinding white road lay empty.  Nothing stirred, not even