It has all these different tastes at once, simultaneously. In this it resembles the beatific vision as told of by St. Thomas Aquinas. The point of the beatific vision, says St. Thomas, is _its infinite variety_. So that those who enjoy it have at the same time the feeling that they are looking at a perfect landscape, hearing the sweetest music, bathing in a cold stream on a hot day, reaching the top of a mountain, galloping on grass on a horse that isn’t running away, floating over tree-tops in a balloon, reading very good verse, eating toasted cheese, drinking a really good cocktail--and any other nice thing you can think of, _all at once_. The point, therefore, of the taste of the mango is its infinite variety. It was probably mangoes which grew in Eden on the Tree of Knowledge, only I expect they had a different kind of skin then, and were without that cumbersome and obstinate kernel, which makes them so very difficult to eat. There are a good many people at dinner--Englishmen and Englishwomen. Their faces are washed absolutely chalk-white by the heat, as if every drop of blood had been drained from them. That is what comes from living in such a climate. One thinks of Kipling once more. The room seems to be full of his characters. There is Mrs. Hawksbee; I recognised her at once. There is Otis Yeere and Pluffles, and Churton and Reggie Burke, and Pack, and I believe that conjuror in the verandah is Strickland in disguise. He comes nearer and does the mango trick, and then begins to charm a snake; but we all refuse to see the snake charmed, charm he never so wisely, having a horror of snakes. It gets hotter and hotter; one feels one’s bones melting. The next morning punctually at 6.30 the tailor arrives with the suit of clothes finished, as he promised, and by eight we have to be on board the steamer. To-day the sun is shining with all his might, and one realizes that if one had stayed a few hours longer in this beautiful island, it would have entailed either buying a pith helmet or getting a sunstroke. The harbour is a lovely sight in the early morning. Church parties from a British man-of-war are on their way to church. The sea is like an emerald to-day. The little narrow native boats, full of gorgeous-coloured fruits, are slipping about round the liner. I am sorry to leave Ceylon. _From Colombo to Fremantle: July_ The Indian Ocean once more. The weather now is pleasant, but it is still very hot. We are in the doldrums. The word “doldrums” conjures up visions of adventure, of pirates, of Spanish galleons, of frigates fighting privateers, and of Marryat’s characters.