Olivia in India | Page 8

time was at school, because then you had companions.

I feel quite sad when I think what you missed. We were very lucky,
four of us growing up together, and I sometimes wonder if other
children had the same full, splendid time we had, and if they employed
it getting into as many scrapes. The village people, shaking their heads
over us and our probable end, used to say, "They're a' bad, but the lassie
(meaning me) is the verra deil." We were bad, but we were also
extraordinarily happy. I treasure up all sorts of memories, some of them
very trivial and absurd, store them away in lavender, and when I feel
dreary I take them out and refresh myself with them. One episode I
specially remember, though why I should tell you about it I don't quite
know, for it is a small thing and "silly sooth." We were staying at the
time with our grandmother, the grandmother I am called for, a very
stern and stately lady--the only person I have ever really stood in awe
of. We had been wandering all day, led by John, searching for hidden
treasure at the rainbow's foot, climbing high hills to see if the world
came to an end at the other side, or some equally fantastic quest. It was
dark and almost supper-time and we had committed the heinous crime
of not appearing for tea, so, when we were told to go at once to see our
grandmother, and stumbled just as we were, tired and dusty, hair on
end and stockings at our ankles into the quiet room where she sat
knitting fleecy white things by the table with the lamp, we expected
nothing better than to be sent straight to bed, probably supperless. Our
grandmother laid down her knitting, took off her spectacles, and instead
of the rebuke we expected and deserved said, "Bairns, come away in.
I'm sure you must be tired." It had been an unsuccessful day; we had
found no treasure, not even the World's End; the night had fallen damp,
with an eerily sighing wind which depressed us vaguely as we trudged
homewards; but now, the black night shut out, there was the fire-light
and the lamp-light, the kind old voice, and the delicious sense of having
come home.
All things considered, you are a young man greatly to be envied, also at
the present moment to be scolded. How can you possibly allow
yourself to think such silly things? You must have a most exaggerated
idea of my charms if you think every man on board must be in love
with me. Men aren't so impressionable. Did you think that when my
well-nigh unearthly beauty burst on them they would fall on their knees

and with one voice exclaim, "Be mine!" I assure you no one has ever
even thought of doing anything of the kind, and if they had _I wouldn't
tell you_. I know you are only chaffing, but I do so hate all that sort of
thing, and to hear people talk of their "conquests" is revolting. One of
the nicest things about G. is that she doesn't care a bit to philander
about with men. She and I are much happier talking to each other, a
fact which people seem to find hard to believe.
My attention is being diverted from my writing by a lady sitting a few
yards away--the Candle we call her because so many silly young moths
hover round. She is a buxom person, with very golden hair growing
darker towards the roots, hard blue eyes, and a powdery white face. G.
and I are intensely interested to know what is the attraction about her,
for no one can deny there is one. She isn't young; the gods have not
made her fair, and I doubt of her honesty; yet from the first she has
been surrounded by men--most of them, I grant you, unfinished youths
bound to offices in Calcutta, but still men. I thought it might be her
brilliant conversation, but for the last half-hour I have listened,--indeed
we have no choice but to listen, the voices are so strident,--and it can't
be that, because it isn't brilliant or even amusing, unless to call men
names like Pyjamas, or Fatty, or Tubby, and slap them playfully at
intervals is amusing. A few minutes ago Mrs. Crawley came to sit with
us looking so fresh in a white linen dress. I don't know why it is--she
wears the simplest clothes, and yet she manages to make all the other
women look dowdy. She has the gift, too, of knowing the right thing to
wear on every occasion. At Port Said, for instance, the costumes were
varied. The Candle flopped on shore in a trailing white