All three were unwise, but the Wife was the unwisest. The Man
should have looked after his Wife, who should have avoided the
Tertium Quid, who, again, should have married a wife of his own,
after clean and open flirtations, to which nobody can possibly
object, round Jakko or Observatory Hill. When you see a young
man with his pony in a white lather and his hat on the back of his
head, flying downhill at fifteen miles an hour to meet a girl who
will be properly surprised to meet him, you naturally approve of
that young man, and wish him Staff appointments, and take an
interest in his welfare, and, as the proper time comes, give them
sugar-tongs or side-saddles according to your means and
generosity.
The Tertium Quid flew downhill on horseback, but it was to meet
the Man's Wife; and when he flew uphill it was for the same end.
The Man was in the Plains, earning money for his Wife to spend
on dresses and four-hundred-rupee bracelets, and inexpensive
luxuries of that kind. He worked very hard, and sent her a letter or
a post-card daily. She also wrote to him daily, and said that she
was longing for him to come up to Simla. The Tertium Quid used
to lean over her shoulder and laugh as she wrote the notes. Then
the two would ride to the Post-office together.
Now, Simla is a strange place and its customs are peculiar; nor is
any man who has not spent at least ten seasons there qualified to
pass judgment on circumstantial evidence, which is the most
untrustworthy in the Courts.
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