“I translated his letter first.  I censored the tender parts, spun out the padding and served it up like cold-hash.  Then I set to work on ’Erbert.  I got the tremolo stop out and the soft pedal on and made a symphony of it.  I made it a stream of trickling melody—­blue skies, yellow sunshine and scent of roses, with Georgette perched like a sugar goddess on a silver cloud and ’Erbert trying to clamber up to her on a silk ladder.  To read it would have made a Frenchman proud of his own language.  Then, for dramatic effect, I took the letters, put them on the counter and walked out without a word.  ‘That,’ thought I, ’will do ’Orace’s business—­and then for ‘Erbert!’

“Next day, when I went to see the result, to my surprise I found that her place behind the counter was taken by that little red-haired Celestine.

“‘Where’s Georgette?’ said I.

“‘Ah, M’sieur, she has gone,’ said Celestine.  ’Figure to yourself, this ’Orace, who used to write with ardour and spirit, sent her yesterday a poor pitiful note.  It made one’s heart bleed to read it, such halting appeal, such inarticulate sentiment. "Le pauvre garcon!" cried Georgette, “his passion is so strong he cannot find words for it.  He is stricken dumb with excess of feeling.  I must be at his side to comfort him.”  And she has flown like the wind to Calais, that she may be affianced to him.  But if M’sieur desires to buy the soap I know the kind you prefer.’

“So you see me,” concluded Ronnie plaintively, “bankrupt in love and money.  Three francs, Jim, and I’ll chuck in a packet of post-cards.”

* * * * *

Songs of Simla.

I.—­The bureaucrat.

  Along a narrow mountain track
    Stalking supreme, alone,
  Head upwards, hands behind his back,
    He swings his sixteen stone.

  Quit of the tinsel and the glare
    That lit his forbears’ lives,
  His tweed-clad shoulders amply bear
    The burden that was CLIVE’S.

  A man of few and simple needs
    He smokes a briar—­and yet
  His rugged signature precedes
    The half an alphabet.

  Across these green Elysian slopes
    The Secretariat gleams,
  The playground of his youthful hopes,
    The workshop of his schemes.

  He sees the misty depths below,
    Where plain and foothills, meet,
  And smiles a wistful smile to know
    The world is at his feet;

  To know that England calls him back;
    To know that glory’s path
  Is leading to a cul de sac
    In Cheltenham or Bath;

  To know that all he helped to found,
    The India of his prayers,
  Has now become the tilting ground
    Of Mill-bred doctrinaires.

  But his the inalienable years
    Of faith that stirred the blood,
  Of zeal that won through toil and tears,
    And after him—­the flood.