British -- India -- Fiction; India -- History -- British occupation, 1765-1947 -- Fiction
“Oh no! There are endless possibilities in our situation—mostly stupid
ones. But it is a most agreeable actuality.”
“I wish,” he said desperately, “that you would tell me just what the
actuality means to you.”
They were in the Avenue row, and the Waler had been allowed to drop into
a walk. The after-glow still lingered in the soft green duskiness over
their heads; there was light enough for an old woman to see to pick up
the fallen spines in the grass; the nearest tank, darkling in the
gathering gloom of the Maidan, had not yet given up his splash of red
from over the river. He looked at her intently, and her eyes dropped to
the thoughtful consideration of the crone who picked up spines. It might
have been that she blushed, or it might have been some effect of the
after-glow. Ancram inclined to the latter view, but his judgment could
not be said to be impartial.
“Dear Lewis!” she answered softly, “how very difficult that would be!”
In the sudden silence that followed, the new creaking of the Waler’s
harness was perceptible. Ancram assured himself hotly that this was
simple indecency, but it was a difficult thing to say. He was still
guarding against the fatality of irritation when Rhoda added daintily:
“But I don’t see why you should have a monopoly of catechising. Tell me,
sir—I’ve wanted to know for ever so long—what was the first, the very
first thing you saw in me to fall in love with?”
CHAPTER VII.
The Honourable Mr. Ancram’s ideal policy toward the few score million
subjects of the Queen-Empress for whose benefit he helped to legislate,
was a paternalism somewhat highly tempered with the exercise of
discipline. He had already accomplished appreciable things for their
advantage, and he intended to accomplish more. It would be difficult to
describe intelligibly all that he had done; besides, his tasks live in
history. The publications of the Government of India hold them all, and
something very similar may be found in the record which every retired
civilian of distinction cherishes in leather, behind the glass of his
bookcases in Brighton or Bournemouth. It would therefore be unnecessary
as well.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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