prancing distractedly. "This," he said to Boggley, "is what comes of
making no bundabust." Some other people were already occupying the
bungalow, and we could only get the back rooms, small, mouldy, and
inconvenient. Poor Boggley looked so crushed I had to laugh, and we
calmed the worried Autolycus, who hates to see his Sahib shoved into
corners, and, there being no inducement to remain up--went to bed.

Manpur is a fairly big station--the sort of place you read about in
Anglo-Indian novels. There are six households and a club. Boggley
and I called on all the six this evening, and then went to the club.
Everyone meets there in the evening to see the picture-papers and to
play tennis and bridge.

It is rather a bored little community, Manpur. I think they are all
pretty sick of each other, and one can't wonder. Even an Archangel
would pall if one met him at tea, played tennis with him, and sat next
him at dinner almost every day of the year; how much more poor human
beings--and Anglo-Indian human beings at that. Taken separately
they are delightful, but each assures us that the others are quite
impossible. They unite in being shocked at our living in such
discomfort, and have all invited us to stay; but it isn't worth while
to change our quarters. Besides, we are going away for the week-end to
some friend of Boggley's who lives about thirty miles from here.

A nice little young civilian is at present calling on us. He came to
pay his duty call, and he and Boggley became so deep in Oxford talk,
and found so many mutual friends, that we asked him to stay to dinner.
Autolycus told me in a stage whisper that the Sahib could easily stay
as the dâk-bungalow cook was very good, and that we would get quite a
Calcutta dinner. His pride, as he bore in the dishes, was beautiful to