They ride out of the garden. The Captain falls back.
CAPT. G. (Aside.) How that habit catches her under the arms! Ugh!
POOR DEAR MAMMA. (With the worn smile of sixteen seasons, the worse for exchange.) You're dull this afternoon, Captain Gadsby.
CAPT. G. (Spurring up wearily.) Why did you keep me waiting so long?
Et caetera, et caetera, et caetera.
(AN INTERVAL OF THREE WEEKS.)
GILDED YOUTH. (Sitting on railings opposite Town Hall.) Hullo, Gaddy! 'Been trotting out the Gorgonzola! We all thought it was the Gorgon you're mashing.
CAPT. G. (With withering emphasis.) You young cub! What the ― does it matter to you?
Proceeds to read GILDED YOUTH a lecture on discretion and deportment, which crumbles latter like a Chinese Lantern. Departs fuming.
(FURTHER INTERVAL OF FIVE WEEKS.)
SCENE.—Exterior of New Simla Library on a foggy evening. MISS THREEGAN and MISS DEERCOURT meet among the 'rickshaws. MISS T. is carrying a bundle of books under her left arm.
MISS D. (Level intonation.) Well?
MISS T. (Ascending intonation.) Well?
MISS D. (Capturing her friend's left arm, taking away all the books, placing books in 'rickshaw, returning to arm, securing hand by the third finger and investigating.) Well! You bad girl! And you never told me.
MISS T. (Demurely.) He—he—he only spoke yesterday afternoon.
MISS D. Bless you, dear! And I'm to be bridesmaid, aren't I? You know you promised ever so long ago.
MISS T. Of course. I'll tell you all about it to–morrow. (Gets into'rickshaw.) O Emma!
MISS D. (With intense interest.) Yes, dear?
MISS T. (Piano.) It's quite true—about—the—egg.
MISS D. What egg?
MISS T. (Pianissimo prestissimo.) The egg without the salt. (Forte.) Chalo ghar ko jaldi, jhampani! (Go home, jhampani.)
The World Without
Certain people of importance.
SCENE.—Smoking–room of the Deychi Club. Time, 10.30 P. M. of a stuffy night in the Rains. Four men dispersed in picturesque attitudes and easy–chairs. To these enter BLAYNE of the Irregular Moguls, in evening dress.
BLAYNE. Phew! The Judge ought to be hanged in his own store–godown. Hi, khitmatgar! Poora whiskey–peg, to take the taste out of my mouth.
CURTISS. (Royal Artillery.) That's it, is it? What the deuce made you dine at the Judge's? You know his bandobust.
BLAYNE. 'Thought it couldn't be worse than the Club; but I'll swear he buys ullaged liquor and doctors it with gin and ink (looking round the room). Is this all of you tonight?
DOONE. (P. W. D.) Anthony was called out at dinner. Mingle had a pain in his tummy.
CURTISS. Miggy dies of cholera once a week in the Rains, and gets drunk on chlorodyne in between. 'Good little chap, though. Any one at the Judge's, Blayne?
BLAYNE. Cockley and his memsahib looking awfully white and fagged. 'Female girl—couldn't catch the name—on her way to the Hills, under the Cockleys' charge—the Judge, and Markyn fresh from Simla—disgustingly fit.
CURTISS. Good Lord, how truly magnificent! Was there enough ice? When I mangled garbage there I got one whole lump—nearly as big as a walnut. What had Markyn to say for himself?
BLAYNE. 'Seems that every one is having a fairly good time up there in spite of the rain. By Jove, that reminds me! I know I hadn't come across just for the pleasure of your society. News! Great news! Markyn told me.
DOONE. Who's dead now?
BLAYNE. No one that I know of; but Gaddy's hooked at last!
DROPPING CHORUS. How much? The Devil! Markyn was pulling your leg. Not GADDY!
BLAYNE. (Humming.) 'Yea, verily, verily, verily! Verily, verily, I say unto thee.' Theodore, the gift o' God! Our Phillup! It's been given out up above.
MACKESY. (Barrister–at–Law.) Huh! Women will give out anything. What does accused say?
BLAYNE. Markyn told me that he congratulated him warily—one hand held out, t'other ready to guard. Gaddy turned pink and said it was so.
CURTISS. Poor old Gaddy! They all do it. Who's she? Let's hear the details.
BLAYNE. She's a girl—daughter of a Colonel Somebody.
DOONE. Simla's stiff with Colonels' daughters. Be more explicit.
BLAYNE. Wait a shake. What was her name? Three—something. Three—
CURTISS. Stars, perhaps. Gaddy knows that brand.
BLAYNE. Threegan—Minnie Threegan.
MACKESY. Threegan! Isn't she a little bit of a girl with red hair?
BLAYNE. 'Bout that—from what Markyn said.
MACKESY. Then I've met her. She was at Lucknow last season. 'Owned a permanently juvenile Mamma, and danced damnably. I say, Jervoise, you knew the Threegans, didn't you?
JERVOISE. (Civilian of twenty–five years' service, waking up from his doze.) Eh? What's that? Knew who? How? I thought I was at Home, confound you!
MACKESY. The Threegan girl's engaged, so Blayne says.
JERVOISE. (Slowly.) Engaged—engaged! Bless my soul! I'm getting an old man! Little Minnie Threegan engaged. It was only the other day I went home with them in the Surat—no, the Massilia—and she was crawling about on her hands and knees among the ayahs. 'Used to call me the 'Tick Tack Sahib' because I showed her my watch. And that was in Sixty–seven—no, Seventy. Good God, how time flies! I'm an old man. I remember when Threegan married Miss Derwent—daughter of old Hooky Derwent—but that was before your time. And so the little baby's engaged to have a little baby of her own! Who's the other fool?
MACKESY. Gadsby of the Pink Hussars.
JERVOISE. 'Never met him. Threegan lived in debt, married in debt, and'll die in debt. 'Must be glad to get the girl off his hands.
BLAYNE. Gaddy has money—lucky devil. Place at Home, too.
DOONE. He comes of first–class stock. 'Can't quite understand his being caught by a Colonel's daughter, and (looking cautiously round room) Black Infantry at that! No offence to you, Blayne.
BLAYNE. (Stiffly.) Not much, tha–anks.
CURTISS. (Quoting motto of Irregular Moguls.) 'We are what we are,' eh, old man? But Gaddy was such a superior animal as a rule. Why didn't he go Home and pick his wife there?
MACKESY. They are all alike when they come to the turn into the straight. About thirty a man begins to get sick of living alone—
CURTISS. And of the eternal muttony–chop in the morning.
DOONE. It's dead goat as a rule, but go on, Mackesy.
MACKESY. If a man's once taken that way nothing will hold him. Do you remember Benoit of your service, Doone? They transferred him to Tharanda when his time came, and he married a platelayer's daughter, or something of that kind. She was the only female about the place.
DOONE. Yes, poor brute. That smashed Benoit's chances of promotion altogether. Mrs. Benoit used to ask: 'Was you goin' to the dance this evenin'?'