It is a subject I never gave much attention to, but now awful doubts assail me. Am I the Best People? One thing is certain: I am of very little importance. I am only a _chota_ Miss Sahib and my _chota_-ness is my great protection. No one is going to bother much what I do, or trouble to pull my clothes and my conduct to pieces, and I can creep along unnoticed to a great extent; I watch the game and find it vastly entertaining. It grieves me to say that I am one of the class who ought to remain in England. There I am quite a nice person up to my lights, fairly unselfish, loving my neighbour as myself. But I have proved myself pinchbeck. No, you needn't say I'm sweet, I'm not. I find myself saying the most detestable things about people. Oblivious of the beam in my own eye, I stare fixedly and reprovingly at the mote in my neighbour's. Could anything be more unlovable? I get no encouragement to be a cat from Boggley. Everyone is his very good friend. "Mrs. Wright called to-day," I remark at tea. "Did she?" says Boggley. "She's a nice little woman; you'll like her." "She makes up," I say, "and she had on a most ridiculous hat. Mrs. Brodie says she's a dreadful flirt." "Rubbish!" says Boggley; "she's a very good sort and devoted to her husband." "Mrs. Brodie says," I continue, "that she is horrid to other women and tries to take away their husbands. It _is_ odd how fond Anglo-Indian women are of other people's husbands." "Much odder," Boggley retorts, "that you should have become such a little backbiting cat! You'll soon be as bad as old Mother Brodie, and _she's_ the worst in Calcutta." This is the Christmas mail, and I have written sixteen letters, but I can't send presents except to Mother and some girls, for I haven't seen a single thing suitable for a man. Poor Peter wailed for a monkey or a mongoose, but I told him to wait till I came home and I would do my best to bring one or both. I can only send you greetings from a far country. You know you will never be better than I wish you. _Calcutta, Dec. 10_. Dear Mr. Oliver Twist,--I really don't think I can write longer letters. They seem to me very long indeed. I am not ashamed of their length, but I am ashamed, especially when I read yours, of their dullness and of the poverty-stricken attempt at description. How is it that you can make your little German town fascinating, when I can only make this vast, stupefying India sound dull? It wouldn't sound dull if I were telling you about it by word of mouth. I could make you see it then; but what can a poor uninspired one do with a pen, some ink, and a sheet of paper?