Another illusion shattered!
I hasten to set your mind at rest on one point. I have a chaperon, and
a very nice, though entirely unnecessary, one. Her name is Mrs. Victor
Ormonde, and she knows my people at home; that is why she bothers with
me. She is a most attractive woman to look at, tall, dark and slender,
with the dearest little turned-up nose, which makes her look rather
impertinent, and she is a little inclined to be sniffy to some people;
she considers Calcutta women suburban! Her husband is quite different,
friends with everyone, a cheerful soul and as Irish as he can be. He
is very fond of chaffing his exclusive wife. "Now do be affable," he
implored her the other night, before they went to a large and somewhat
mixed gathering. "And was she affable?" I asked next morning. "Oh!
rollin' about on the floor," was the obviously untrue reply.
You ask how I like the Anglo-Indian women, and I don't know quite what
to say. It is the old story. When they are nice they are very, very
nice, but when they are nasty they are _horrid_. Some of them I simply
hate. They give me such nasty little stabs the while they smile and
pretend to be pleasant!
I am quite capable of giving back as good as I get, but it isn't worth
while, because if one does yield to the temptation, afterwards one
feels such a worm. There is no doubt it is more difficult in India
than at home to obey the command of one's childhood: "to behave pretty
and be a lady.
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