Again the servant appears, this time with two cards. Again I murmur
the Open Sesame, and two more men appear. No. 1 gets up to go,
shakes hands with me in a detached way, and departs, and the same
conversation begins again with the new-comers, until they, in their
turn, leave when someone else comes in. It seems to be etiquette to go
away whenever another visitor arrives. I didn't understand this, and
when a man came whom I knew well in my childhood's days and, after a
few minutes' stay, got up to depart, I grabbed his hand and said, "Oh,
won't you stay and have a talk?" He, very nicely, stayed on, and we
did have a delightful talk; but Victor Ormonde, who happened to be
present, has never ceased to chaff me about it. When we dine with
them and get up to go he says in thrilling accents, with an absurdly
sentimental air, "Oh! _won't_ you stay and have a talk?"

I do think India makes very nice men. Almost every man I have met
has been delightful in his own way.... I had just written that last
sentence when a servant brought in a card inscribed "Colonel Simpson."
I got my sunshade and walked round to my sitting-room, where I found a
tall, pensive-looking man. Thinking he must be a friend of Boggley's,
I held out my hand frankly, and having shaken it, the man went on
holding it.

Like Captain Hook, I murmured to myself, "This is unusual," but I
tried to conceal my astonishment, and we sat down together on the
sofa. Then he began to _feel my pulse_. By this time I had made up my
mind he must be a lunatic, and I had a wild idea of snatching away my
hand and making a bound for the window; but feeling that my legs were
too weak with fright to be of any real use to me, I remained seated.