scoffing. It was easy to say clever things about the poor little
exhibits; and one was grateful to the show on this account, for
nothing is more depressing east of Suez than the absence of
provocation to say clever things. There one afternoon in May as we
marched about enjoying ourselves, we came upon Ingersoll Armour, not
in the flesh, but in half a dozen studies hanging in the least
conspicuous corner and quite the worst light in the room.

'Eh, what?' said I, and Dora exclaimed:

'I SAY!'

'Sent out from home,' I said, ever the oracle.

'Not at all,' replied Dora. 'Look, they are Indian subjects. SIMLA
subjects,' she went on, with excitement.

I turned up the catalogue. 'Ninety-seven, "Kasumti Bazaar"; ninety-
eight, "Clouds on the Chor"; ninety-nine, "The House of a Friend"--
Lord, what apricot blossoms! Yes, they're all Simla.'

'For goodness' sake,' said Dora, 'who painted them? You've got the
catalogue!'

'"I. Armour,"' I read.

'"I. Armour,"' she repeated, and we looked at each other, saying in
plain silence that to the small world of Simla I. Armour was
unknown.