Mrs. Mallowe turned lazily on the sofa and rested her head on her
hand. 'Hear the words of the Preacher, the son of Baruch,' she said.

'Will you talk sensibly?'

'I will, dear, for I see that you are going to make a mistake.'

'I never made a mistake in my life at least, never one that I couldn't
explain away afterwards.'

'Going to make a mistake,' went on Mrs. Mallowe composedly. 'It
is impossible to start a salon in Simla. A bar would be much more
to the point.'

'Perhaps, but why? It seems so easy.'

'Just what makes it so difficult. How many clever women are there
in Simla?'

'Myself and yourself,' said Mrs. Hauksbee, without a moment's
hesitation.

'Modest woman! Mrs. Feardon would thank you for that. And how
many clever men?'

'Oh er hundreds,' said Mrs. Hauksbee vaguely.

'What a fatal blunder! Not one. They are all bespoke by the
Government. Take my husband, for instance. Jack was a clever
man, though I say so who shouldn't. Government has eaten him up.