Anglo-Indian women.

Calcutta society is made up of Government people, Army people,
and business people who are called, for some unknown reason,
_box-wallahs_. It seems very strange that there should be such a
desire to go one better than one's neighbour, to have better horses, a
smarter carriage, a larger house, smarter gowns, because, at least in
the case of the Civil Service people, their income is known down to
the last rupee.

Everybody in India is, more or less, somebody. It must be a very sad
change to go home to England and be (comparatively) poor and shabby,
and certainly obscure, to have people remark vaguely they suppose
you are "something in India." I suppose we are all snobs at heart.
Snobbery, sir, doth walk about the orb like the sun, it shines
everywhere. A good lady talked to me quite seriously lately about what
the Best People in Calcutta did. It has become a light table joke with
us, and when I plant my elbows on the table and hum a tune while we
are waiting for the next course at dinner, Boggley mildly inquires,
"Do the Best People do that?"

It is a subject I never gave much attention to, but now awful doubts
assail me. Am I the Best People? One thing is certain: I am of very
little importance. I am only a _chota_ Miss Sahib and my _chota_-ness
is my great protection. No one is going to bother much what I do, or
trouble to pull my clothes and my conduct to pieces, and I can creep
along unnoticed to a great extent; I watch the game and find it vastly
entertaining.

It grieves me to say that I am one of the class who ought to remain