In the “service,” why one man who receives a thousand a month is in “society,” and a five hundred or a two hundred rupee walla is excluded, though the latter may be superior mentally, morally and physically to the other, is a conundrum to me. They are all naukars, servants, work for wages, and are at the beck and call of others, and even the best of them at times have to do a little shinning for the sake of a few paltry rupees. Evidently God has not formed me with intelligence enough to comprehend these intricate society matters, so that whatever error there may be in my questions, can be imputed to my imbecility and ignorance. I candidly admit that I am sometimes a fool. I do this the more readily to escape the major conclusion in the saying, “He that is not a fool sometime, is likely to be a fool all the time.” Still I cannot forbear giving my opinion that this blind running in respect to the unfixedness of “society,” has gone on long enough, and in this advanced stage of civilization such an important matter should at once be so well defined that an outsider, though a fool, need not err thereat. If St. Peter should make it a question of admission through the pearly gates whether we had been in “society,” or to what caste or grade we belong, too many might be puzzled for an answer, and so miss the privilege of treading the golden pavements. Another question is the status of gentleman. This has never been settled. Some one has said that “a gentleman is one who does not have to work for a living.” This might not suit India, as it would almost exclude everybody, for all here have to work, or pretend to do so, and most of them, from what they say, deuced hard to get their grub. I might come in under this definition, for through the kind providence of Mr. Percy I have never been obliged to do a hard stroke of work. Yet I would very likely, judging from my experience, be objected to on account of the color of my integument. So I am left in the dark as to my position, under the shade of my skin—an undefined, crude, protoplasmic nonentity; a very undesirable position. There are always so many little things to upset one’s calculations. The slightest extraneous matter, as I have read, will destroy the distinctive flavor of a vintage, or, as we well know, the sight of a tiny fly in the soup will destroy our relish for the dish, so the slight tinge that God or the Devil put into my face has often offended the delicate sensibilities of colorless people. As I have a personal interest at stake in this question, I would like to know who I am and where I come in, anything to settle the matter, and not for myself only, but for thousands of other unfortunates. I am always curious to know the breed of my horses and dogs, and the strain of my chickens, why not about my own status and that of the different humanities I meet?