it was partly glazed off, and inside sat a young man in his shirt-
sleeves with his back to the door.

In reply he called out, 'That you, Rosario?' and I stood silent,
taken somewhat aback.

There was only one Rosario in Simla, and he was a subordinate in my
own office. Again the hateful need to explain. Between subordinate
clerks and officials in Simla there is a greater gulf fixed than was
ever imagined in parable. Besides, Rosario had a plain strain of
what we call 'the country' in him, a plain strain, that is, of the
colour of the country. It was certainly the first time in my
official career that I had been mistaken for Rosario.

Armour turned round and saw me--that I was a stranger.

He got up at once. 'Oh,' he said, 'I thought it was Rosario.

'It isn't,' I replied, 'my name is Philips. May I ask whether you
were expecting Mr. Rosario? I can come again, you know.'

'Oh, it doesn't matter. Sit down. He may drop in or he may not--I
rather thought he would today. It's a pull up, isn't it, from the
Mall? Have a whisky and soda.'

I stood on the threshold spellbound. It was just the smell that
bound me, the good old smell of oil paints and turpentine and
mediums and varnish and new canvas that you never by any chance put
your nose into in any part of Asia. It carried me back twenty years
to old haunts, old friends, old joys, ideals, theories. Ah, to be