Once they walked up the path and down again, talking of dogs, because it happened that Tom Tripe’s enormous beast was sprawling in the shadow of a rose-bush at the farther end.  The commissioner did not like dogs.  “Something loathsome about them—­degrading—­especially the big ones.”  She disagreed.  She liked them, cold wet noses and all, even in the dark.  Tom Tripe, stepping behind a bush with the obvious purpose of smoking in secret the clay pipe that be hardly troubled to conceal, whistled the dog, who leapt into life as if stung and joined his master.

The second time up and down they talked of professional beggars and what a problem they are to India, because they both happened as they turned to catch sight of Umra with the one eye, entering through the little gate in the wall and shuffling without modesty or a moment’s hesitation to his favorite seat among the shrubs, whence to view proceedings undisturbed.

“Those three beggars that haunt this house seem to claim all our privileges,” she said.  “They wouldn’t think of letting us give a garden party without them.”

“Say the word,” he said, “and I’ll have them put in prison.”

But she did not say the word.

The third time up the path he chose to waste on very obvious flattery.

“You’re such an unusual woman, you know, Mrs. Blaine.  You understand whatever’s said to you, and don’t ask idiotic questions.  And then, of course, you’re American, and I feel I can say things to you that my own countrywoman wouldn’t understand.  As an American, in other words, you’re privileged.”

As they turned at the top of the path she felt a cold wet something thrust into her hand from behind.  She had never in her life refused a caress to a dog that asked for one, and her fingers closed almost unconsciously on Trotters’ muzzle, touching as they did so the square unmistakable hard edges of an envelope.  There was no mistaking the intent; the dog forced it on her and, the instant her fingers closed on it, slunk out of sight.

“Wasn’t that Tripe’s infernal dog again?”

“Was it?  I didn’t see.”  She was wiping slobber on to her skirt from an envelope whose strong perfume had excited the dog’s salivary glands.  But it was true that she did not see.

“May I call you Theresa?”

“Why?”

“It would encourage confidences.  There isn’t another woman in Sialpore whom I could tell what I’m going to say to you.  The others would repeat it to their husbands, or—­”

“I tell mine everything.  Every word!”

“Or they’d try to work me on the strength of it for little favors—­”

“Wait until you know me!  Little favors don’t appeal to me.  I like them big—­very big!”

“Honestly, Theresa—­”

“Better call me Mrs. Blaine.”

“Honestly, there’s nothing under heaven that—­”

“That you really know about me.  I know there isn’t.  You were going to tell secrets.  I’m listening.”