We are
only little bits of dirt on the hillsides here one day and blown down
the khud the next. We have lost the art of talking at least our men
have. We have no cohesion '
'George Eliot in the flesh,' interpolated Mrs. Hauksbee wickedly.
'And collectively, my dear scoffer, we, men and women alike, have
no influence. Come into the verandah and look at the Mall!'
The two looked down on the now rapidly filling road, for all Simla
was abroad to steal a stroll between a shower and a fog.
'How do you propose to fix that river? Look! There's The Mussuck
head of goodness knows what. He is a power in the land, though he
does eat like a costermonger. There's Colonel Blone, and General
Grucher, and Sir Dugald Delane, and Sir Henry Haughton, and Mr.
Jellalatty. All Heads of Departments, and all powerful.'
'And all my fervent admirers,' said Mrs. Hauksbee piously. 'Sir
Henry Haughton raves about me. But go on.'
'One by one, these men are worth something. Collectively, they're
just a mob of Anglo-Indians. Who cares for what Anglo-Indians
say? Your salon won't weld the Departments together and make
you mistress of India, dear. And these creatures won't talk
administrative ''shop" in a crowd your salon because they are so
afraid of the men in the lower ranks overhearing it. They have
forgotten what of Literature and Art they ever knew, and the
women '
'Can't talk about anything except the last Gymkhana, or the sins of
their last nurse.
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