British -- India -- Fiction; India -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
When he opened the letter he and Trixie were seated at their early
breakfast in the veranda, attended by a greedy and devoted gathering of
pets. Two well-disciplined fox terriers watched in quivering impatience
for scraps of toast, obediently oblivious of a pair of Persian kittens
that clawed and mewed and sprang in unmannerly fashion; a noisy green
parrot in a dome-shaped cage; a monkey that jumped and jabbered on the
back of the memsahib's chair; a tame squirrel that darted to and fro
with bead-like eyes and feathery tail, even a greater trial to the dogs
than the Persian kittens. Trixie worshipped animals and children;
indeed, she had one day scandalised the general's wife by declaring,
most immodestly as that lady considered, that she intended to have
twenty babies, but, meanwhile, she could content herself with dogs and
cats and monkeys.
Coventry threw the letter across the table to his wife; he half hoped
she would read it with dismay, and show reluctance that he should accept
the invitation. This, he felt, would give him just the excuse he wanted
to refuse it, would put a definite obstacle in the way of acceptance
instead of his being left at the mercy of conflicting inclinations. He
watched her read the letter, but her expression did not cloud; on the
contrary, it brightened.
"Oh, George!" she cried, looking up at him with shining eyes, "how
lovely for you, and how I wish I could come too! I'd give anything to
ride an elephant all day, and see tigers charge, and hear them roar, and
then wear a necklace of their claws!"
"Markham won't have women on his shoots. He says it degrades the sport
to the level of garden party games!" said Coventry.
"Oh, what a pig he must be!"
"Anyway, it would be far too rough for you, and the heat would be awful
in tents. I'm not at all sure that I like the idea of it myself."
"You surely can't mean that you are dreaming of refusing?" cried Trixie,
in amazed reproach. "Of course, you must go. He asks you to wire, so you
must answer at once. Shall I get a telegraph form?"
"I'm not particularly keen on going," he said, with affected
carelessness.
"I don't believe it! I am sure you are aching to wire and say you are
coming. If you are pretending that you don't want to go because you
think I shall be lonely, you can put that out of your head at once. I
shan't miss you a bit."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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