Could anything be more unlovable?
I get no encouragement to be a cat from Boggley. Everyone is his very
good friend.
"Mrs. Wright called to-day," I remark at tea.
"Did she?" says Boggley. "She's a nice little woman; you'll like her."
"She makes up," I say, "and she had on a most ridiculous hat. Mrs.
Brodie says she's a dreadful flirt."
"Rubbish!" says Boggley; "she's a very good sort and devoted to her
husband."
"Mrs. Brodie says," I continue, "that she is horrid to other women and
tries to take away their husbands. It _is_ odd how fond Anglo-Indian
women are of other people's husbands."
"Much odder," Boggley retorts, "that you should have become such a
little backbiting cat! You'll soon be as bad as old Mother Brodie, and
_she's_ the worst in Calcutta."
This is the Christmas mail, and I have written sixteen letters, but
I can't send presents except to Mother and some girls, for I haven't
seen a single thing suitable for a man. Poor Peter wailed for a monkey
or a mongoose, but I told him to wait till I came home and I would do
my best to bring one or both.
I can only send you greetings from a far country.
You know you will never be better than I wish you.
_Calcutta, Dec. 10_.
Dear Mr. Oliver Twist,--I really don't think I can write longer
letters. They seem to me very long indeed. I am not ashamed of their
length, but I am ashamed, especially when I read yours, of their
dullness and of the poverty-stricken attempt at description.
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