n a lump for the first time, and
it's not nice that way. Makes a man jump rather, doesn't it? But,
recollect, you've _asked_ for the worst places, and you can't complain."
"Who's complaining? Bring on your atrocities. Isn't that a European
woman at that door?" "Yes. Mrs. D----, widow of a soldier, mother of
seven children." "Nine, if you please, and good evening to you," shrills
Mrs. D----, leaning against the door-post, her arms folded on her bosom.
She is a rather pretty, slightly made Eurasian, and whatever shame she
may have owned she has long since cast behind her. A shapeless
Burmo-native trot, with high cheek-bones and mouth like a shark, calls
Mrs. D---- "Mem-Sahib." The word jars unspeakably. Her life is a matter
between herself and her Maker, but in that she--the widow of a soldier
of the Queen--has stooped to this common foulness in the face of the
city, she has offended against the White race. "You're from up-country,
and of course you don't understand. There are any amount of that lot in
the city, say the Police." Then the secret of the insolence of Calcutta
is made plain. Small wonder the natives fail to respect the Sahib,
seeing what they see and knowing what they know. In the good old days,
the Honourable the Directors deported him or her who misbehaved grossly,
and the white man preserved his face. He may have been a ruffian, but he
was a ruffian on a large scale. He did not sink in the presence of the
people. The natives are quite right to take the wall of the Sahib who
has been at great pains to prove that he is of the same flesh and blood.

All this time Mrs. D---- stands on the threshold of her room and looks
upon the men with unabashed eyes. Mrs. D---- is a lady with a story. She
is not averse to telling it. "What was--ahem--the case in which you
were--er--hmn--concerned, Mrs. D----?" "They said I'd poisoned my
husband by putting something into his drinking water." This is
interesting. "And--ah--_did_ you?" "'Twasn't proved," says Mrs. D----
with a laugh, a pleasant, lady-like laugh that does infinite credit to
her education and upbringing. Worthy Mrs. D----! It would pay a
novelist--a French one let us say--to pick you out of the stews and make
you talk.

The Police move forward, into a region of Mrs. D----'s. Everywhere are
the empty houses, and the babbling women in print gowns. The clocks in
the city are close upon midnight, but the Police show no signs of
stopping. They plunge hither and thit