I had meant to be frightfully cross with him when he appeared--that is
to say, if he weren't wounded or disabled in any way--but somehow I
never can be very cross when I see him, the way he wrinkles up his
short-sighted eyes is so disarming.
He had absolutely no excuse except that he had run across old friends,
and they had persuaded him to stay to lunch, and then they had got
talking, and so on and so on. He was very repentant, but inclined to
laugh. I expect really he had forgotten for the time he had a sister.
He confessed he hadn't mentioned my existence till he was leaving, and
then, he said, "They did seem rather surprised." I should think so
indeed!
Our home mail was waiting us at Manpur and another "Calcutta" dinner.
Your letter, my faithful friend, was more than usually charming and
kind--a balm to my lacerated feelings! If you don't get a letter next
mail after this it will mean either that we are entirely out of the
reach of post offices, or that a tiger has eaten the dak-runner.
_Chota Haganpore, March 25_.
... a whole fortnight since I wrote last, and our tour is almost over.
On Wednesday we go back to Calcutta, and in April I sail for home. The
time has simply rushed past. This last fortnight has been a time of
pure delight; I have been too absorbed in enjoying myself to write.
First, we stayed two days in a town where Boggley had to open some
sort of building. The natives met us with a band, and there were
decorations and mottoes and crowds.
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