‘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. All his ideas and powers of conversation—he really used to be a good talker, even to his wife in the old days—are taken from him by this—this kitchen-sink of a Government. That’s the case with every man up here who is at work. I don’t suppose a Russian convict under the knout is able to amuse the rest of his gang; and all our men-folk here are gilded convicts.’

‘But there are scores—’

‘I know what you’re going to say. Scores of idle men up on leave. I admit it, but they are all of two objectionable sets. The Civilian who’d be delightful if he had the military man’s knowledge of the world and style, and the military man who’d be adorable if he had the Civilian’s culture.’

‘Detestable word! Have Civilians culchaw? I never studied the breed deeply.’

‘Don’t make fun of Jack’s Service. Yes. They’re like the teapoys in the Lakka Bazar— good material but not polished. They can’t help themselves, poor dears. A Civilian only begins to be tolerable after he has knocked about the world for fifteen years.’

‘And a military man?’

‘When he has had the same amount of service. The young of both species are horrible. You would have scores of them in your salon.’

‘I would not!’ said Mrs. Hauksbee fiercely.

‘I would tell the bearer to darwaza band them. I’d put their own colonels and commissioners at the door to turn them away. I’d give them to the Topsham Girl to play with.’

‘The Topsham Girl would be grateful for the gift. But to go back to the salon. Allowing that you had gathered all your men and women together, what would you do with them? Make them talk? They would all with one accord begin to flirt. Your salon would become a glorified Peliti’s—a ‘‘Scandal Point” by lamplight.’

‘There’s a certain amount of wisdom in that view.’

‘There’s all the wisdom in the world in it. Surely, twelve Simla seasons ought to have taught you that you can’t focus anything in India; and a salon, to be any good at all, must be permanent. In two seasons your roomful would be scattered all over Asia. We are only little bits of dirt on the hillsides—here one day and blown down the khud the next. We have lost the art of talking—at least our men have. We have no cohesion—’

‘George Eliot in the flesh,’ interpolated Mrs. Hauksbee wickedly.