She hadn't read the first chapter when the old
gentleman opposite said sternly, "Your friend is fainting," and
turning, Mother was just in time to catch the Russian as she slid
to the floor. She wrestled with her for an hour, reviving her with
smelling-salts, and making her comfortable with her air-cushion and
rug, distracted all the time by the yelling of young infants somewhere
near. As soon as she could leave her she went to see what was wrong,
and found twin-babies making day hideous with their din, while their
poor mother lay stretched on a seat, too ill to cope with them.
She was a missionary's wife, it turned out, on her way home, with no
nurse and much malaria, so, of course, Mother had to stay and nurse
the twins until luncheon was ready, when another Good Samaritan came
and took a turn. While having luncheon she was hailed by a friend,
lately left a widow, who insisted on Mother accompanying her to her
compartment, where she wept on her shoulder while telling her all the
details of her husband's last illness; then back again to nurse the
Russian and the babies until the journey's end, when she emerged
almost as hot, and crumpled, and exhausted as if she had run behind
all the way.
How heartily, my friend, I agree with you about the tiresomeness of
balls. I think it must be old age approaching, but I can't see any use
in going off at the hour when, under happier circumstances, I would
be thinking of bed, to a hot, crowded ballroom; and just at present
Calcutta is simply congested with balls.
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