When Mrs. Gordon and her small party entered this popular resort, it was empty; the members were playing badminton or polo, or riding and driving in the neighbourhood (there was a choice of no less than four routes, including the cutcha road, and the old boat bridge). No one was to be found on the premises but a bearer, who was dressing the lamps, and a dog, who lay in the verandah catching flies. "What furniture!" said Angel, looking about her. "Did you ever see such a sofa, and such chairs—they must have come out of the ark." "More likely they came out of some bungalow looted in the Mutiny forty years ago, and then sold back to 'the sahibs,'" said Lindsay; "what tales they might tell!" "I am glad they are not gifted with speech," said Angel, with a shudder. "And the funny old prints, and the funny rules," said Mrs. Gordon, now criticising in her turn. "Any new books? No, as old as the hills," taking up two or three, "and the magazines of last year. I wonder how it feels to live in such a sleepy hollow?" "Rather agreeable," replied Lindsay. "I think I shall come here for the rest cure. I find they have the daily papers, including the _Pi_," glancing at the _Pioneer_. "Mrs. Gascoigne, did you see that nice little part about your husband? I meant to tell you yesterday." "Where?" asked Angel eagerly, coming to the table as she spoke. He placed the paper before her, and indicated the place, as she sank into a chair. "Not much to do here?" he remarked, turning to the other lady, who was now rooting among the book shelves, and raised a flushed face and pair of dusty gloves. "What do you think?" she cried, "there is a first edition of 'Adam Bede,' one volume missing, and a battered copy of Dr. Syntax—a first edition of 'Vilette'—what treasures!" "I should not be surprised if you unearthed one of the books of the Vedas in a place like this," said Lindsay, contemptuously, "or the manuscript copy of 'Æsop's Fables.'" "I don't suppose the club has bought any new novels within the memory of living man," said Mrs. Gordon. "Probably not," said Lindsay. "I have no doubt that local topics and station gossip, amply supply the place of current fiction. There is nothing novel or interesting in the place. I am convinced that even the latest news is last year's scandal." "How you do despise this poor old place!" remonstrated Mrs. Gordon. "I don't believe they ever gossip here, except about cooks and the price of kerosene oil. It's not at all a bad little club; it is quiet and unpretentious, and——" "And dull," supplemented Lindsay with energy. "Come, let us go for a walk outside, and take a turn round the polo ground. What do you say, Mrs. Gascoigne? Or are you too grand, in consequence of your husband's achievements, to be seen with _us_?"