“The flowers my guests, the birds my pensioners, Books my companions and but few besides.” I have been an omnivorous devourer of books, and cannot enumerate them. Sydney Smith, when asked of the books he had read, replied, “I cannot tell you a thing about them, neither can I catalogue the legs of mutton I have eaten, and which have made me the man I am.” What now greatly pleased me was that my wife also was a great reader, not of the flippant, superficial stuff, but of the more substantial sort, so that with our mutual tastes and an abundant supply of books, we were a world to ourselves, and society was not a necessity to us. She knew enough of India to be aware that those not in the ring or clique of the civil or military services were tabooed as not in society. This prejudice or class pride is something I never could comprehend. This is a queer, mad, man-made world though Providence has provided the materials. It is amusing to watch the antics of society. Once, on a train, two young officers traveling third-class to save money, at a station just before they reached their journey’s end, slipped into a first-class compartment to save appearance, and make their friends think they traveled first-class. This was but an innocent deception compared to that of an officer in high position who always went second class, yet signed a declaration on honor, that he traveled first-class, and so got his first-class allowance. Society has a horror of anything not first-class in India. It will pinch and pare in private, that it may spread its tail feathers like a peacock in public. The Stoics had a belief that the peacock was created solely for its tail, and these society folk may have the same notion about themselves. I have known a woman, a lady, cut down the wages of her half-starved servants, and squabble over the price of some cheap vegetables, who would put down a large subscription for a testimonial to some swell whom she had never seen or cared a pin about. We, that is, my wife and I, had never spoken of my Eurasian descent, yet I could but feel that she was conscious of its disadvantages. Who could be in India, among its Christian people, only for a few months, without seeing the upturned noses of refined, Christian ladies and gentlemen, when a reference was made to any one who had been touched with the racial tar brush? “But why the——do you always bring this up?” some one may ask. I don’t bring it up, for it is always up with me. “For that dye is on me, Which makes my whitest part black.” I might as well be asked why I carry my nasal organ about with me, or if people should ever be hitting this facial protuberance of mine, why should I take offense? Even a worm will turn if trod upon. When we were on our train in the railway station in Bombay, a lady looked into our apartment, and remarked to her friend: “There’s an Eurasian in there, we will find another place.”