and writing interminable letters to her family in Balham. Her elderly
husband, a weak, easy-going man, tired of her constant reproaches for
having dragged her away from the gay life of her London suburb to the
isolation of a tea-garden, spent as much of his day as possible in the
factory. In the bungalow he drank methodically and steadily until he was in
a state of mellow contentment and indifferent to his wife's tongue.

On club days Mrs. Rice was a different woman. She arrayed herself in the
latest fashions, or the nearest approach to them that could be reached by a
native tailor working on her back verandah with the guidance of the fashion
plates in ladies' journals. Her face thickly coated with most of the
creams, powders, and complexion beautifiers on the market, she swathed her
head in a thick veil thrown over her sun-hat. Then, prepared for conquest,
she climbed into the strong, country-built bamboo cart in which her husband
was graciously permitted to drive her to the club. Fortunately for her a
passable road to it ran from her bungalow, for she could not ride.

Arrived at the weekly gathering-place she delighted to surround herself
with all the men that she could cajole from the bar running down the
side of the one room of the building. With the extraordinary power of
self-deception of vain women she believed that most of them were
secretly in love with her.

Noreen's arrival in the district the previous year and her instant
popularity were galling to the older woman. But after a while, finding that
her sneers and thinly-veiled bitter speeches against the girl had no effect
on the men, she changed her tactics and pretended to make a bosom friend of
her.

When all the company had assembled at the club, luncheon was served at a