Grish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied Bengali dressed with
scrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers and tan gloves.
But I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian Government paid for
his university education, and he contributed cheap sedition to _Sachi
Durpan_, and intrigued with the wives of his schoolmates.

"That is very funny and very foolish," he said, nodding at the poster. "I
am going down to the Northbrook Club. Will you come too?"

I walked with him for some time. "You are not well," he said. "What is
there in your mind? You do not talk."

"Grish Chunder, you've been too well educated to believe in a God, haven't
you?"

"Oah, yes, _here!_ But when I go home I must conciliate popular
superstition, and make ceremonies of purification, and my women will
anoint idols."

"And hang up _tulsi_ and feast the _purohit_, and take you back into caste
again and make a good _khuttri_ of you again, you advanced social
Free-thinker. And you'll eat _desi_ food, and like it all, from the smell
in the courtyard to the mustard oil over you."

"I shall very much like it," said Grish Chunder, unguardedly, "Once a
Hindu--always a Hindu. But I like to know what the English think they
know."

"I'll tell you something that one Englishman knows. It's an old tale to
you."