dream into the house. It was such a small house that it wasn't on
the municipal map at all: it looked as if someone had built it for
amusement with anything that was lying about. Nevertheless, it had
a name, it was called Amy Villa, freshly painted in white letters on
a shiny black board, and nailed against the nearest tree in the
orthodox Simla fashion. It looked as if the owner of the place had
named it as a duty towards his tenant, the board was so new, and in
that case the reflection presented itself that the tenant might have
cooperated to call it something else. It was disconcerting somehow
to find that our dove had perched, even temporarily, in Amy Villa.
Nor was it soothing to discover that the small white object stuck in
the corner of the board was Mr. Ingersoll Armour's card.

In Simla we do not stick our cards about in that way at the mercy of
the wind and the weather; we paint our names neatly under the names
of our houses with 'I.C.S.' for Indian Civil Service, or 'P.W.D.'
for Public Works Department, or whatever designation we are entitled
to immediately after, so that there can be no mistake. This strikes
newcomers sometimes as a little professional, especially when a hand
accompanies, pointing; but it is the only possible way where there
are no streets and no numbers, but where houses are dropped about a
hilltop as if they had fallen from a pepper-pot. In sticking his
card out like that Mr. Armour seemed to imagine himself au quatrieme
or au cinquieme somewhere on the south side of the Seine; it
betrayed rather a ridiculous lack of conformity. He was high enough
up, however, to give any illusion; I had to stop to find the wind to
announce myself. There was nobody else to do it if I except the
dog.

I walked into the veranda and shouted. Then I saw that one end of