We had tea at the Mission House and met several missionary ladies who
told us much that was interesting about their work, which they seem to
love whole-heartedly. I asked one girl how it compared with work among
the poor at home, and she said, "Well, perhaps it is the sunshine, but
here it is never sordid." I can't agree. To me the eternal sunshine
makes it worse. At home, although the poverty and misery are terrible,
still, I comfort myself, the poor have their cosy moments. In winter
sometimes, when funds run to a decent fire and a kippered herring
to make a savoury smell, a brown teapot on the hob and the children
gathered in, they are as happy as possible for the time being; I have
seen them. I can't imagine any brightness in the lives of the women we
saw.

To be a missionary in Calcutta, I think one would require to have an
acute sense of humour and no sense of smell. Am I flippant? I don't
mean to be, because I feel I can't sufficiently admire the men and
women who are bearing the heat and burden of the day. And now that
sounds patronizing, and Heaven knows I don't mean to be that.

Anyway, G. and I were never intended to be missionaries. We drove
home very silent, in the only vehicle procurable, a third-class
_tikka-gharry_, feeling as if all the varied smells of the East were
lying heavy on our chests. Once G. said gloomily, "How long does
typhoid fever take to come out?" which made me laugh weakly most of
the way home.


_13th_.