“I feel almost fit for the poggle khana (mad-house),” she continued. “Just look here! Here is my list of furniture, come back from making the round of the station, and all that has been taken is a watering-pot, six finger-glasses, and a pie-dish!” (The truth was that people were tired of my aunt’s lists.) “And here are dozens of servants clamouring for chits--and a man waiting to buy the cows. I wish to goodness some one would buy your uncle’s shikar camel,”--reading aloud from list,--“‘young, strong, easy trot and walk, with saddle, Rs. 200.’ Your uncle is going to chum with Mr. Jones. He does not intend shooting this season--even _he_ finds it an expensive pursuit,” this in a significant parenthesis. “I’ve not put away the ornaments, nor sold off my stores, nor packed one of my own things.” I muttered some sympathetic remark, but I knew that Aunt Jane enjoyed these “earthquakings” immensely. She was constantly uprooting her establishment, and taking what she called “a run home.” “And you go on Monday?” I inquired. “Yes, child; though I don’t believe I shall ever be ready. Your mother, of course, will want to know how you are? I must candidly tell her that you are looking dreadfully pasty. Ah! I see you have got a parcel.” “Only a very little one,” I pleaded apologetically. “Well, well, I suppose I must _try_ and take it; and now what are your plans?” “Tom has got two months’ leave, and Charlie is coming up from Madras; we are going away on a trip into the real jungle.” “For what?” she asked tartly. “Well, to see something different from the routine of cantonment life, something different from the band-stand and D.W.P. pattern church--to see _real_ India.” “What folly! Real India, indeed!” she snorted; “as if you would _ever_ see it! It makes me wild to hear of people talking, and worse still, writing about India, as if one person could grasp even a small corner of it. Here am I, twenty-five years in the country, speaking the language fluently, and what do I know?” she paused dramatically. “The bazaar prices, the names of the local trees and flowers, the rents of the principal houses up at Simla.” (I have reason to believe that my aunt did herself gross injustice; she knew the private affairs of half the civilians in the provinces, and was on intimate terms with their “family skeletons.”) “As to the character of the people! I cannot even fathom my own ayah, and she is with me eleven years.” “I believe some people know a great deal about India,” I ventured to protest.