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." What is a lady exactly? I used to be told that a
lady was one who always said "please" when asking for more
bread-and-butter, and who never bit the fingers of her gloves. That
was simple. "And what'll I be if I'm not a lady?" I asked. "You'll be
common," said the nurse severely, and then and there, because snatched
bread-and-butter was sweet and gloves chewed in secret pleasant, I
registered a vow that common I would be. A dear little lady I met
the other day, talking about her sister Mem-sahibs, said airily, "Of
course we very soon lose complexions, manners, and morals." She could
afford to say so, it being so obviously untrue in her case. I think it
is just this, that the women who are pure gold grow more charming, but
the pinch-beck wears off very soon. The Eastern sun reveals blemishes,
moral and physical, that would pass unnoticed in the murkier
atmosphere of England. The wonder to me is that anyone keeps nice when
one thinks of the provocation there is to deteriorate. The climate,
the lack of any serious occupation to take up their days, the constant
round of gaieties indulged in partly, I believe, to keep themselves
from thinking, the ever-present anxiety about the children at
home--oh! there is much one could say if one held a brief for the