can only send you greetings from a far country.

You know you will never be better than I wish you.

_Calcutta, Dec. 10_.

Dear Mr. Oliver Twist,--I really don't think I can write longer
letters. They seem to me very long indeed. I am not ashamed of their
length, but I am ashamed, especially when I read yours, of their
dullness and of the poverty-stricken attempt at description. How is it
that you can make your little German town fascinating, when I can only
make this vast, stupefying India sound dull? It wouldn't sound dull if
I were telling you about it by word of mouth. I could make you see it
then; but what can a poor uninspired one do with a pen, some ink, and
a sheet of paper?

I have been employing a shining hour by paying calls. You must know
that in India the new arrival does not sit and wait to be called
on, she up and calls first. It is quite simple. You call your
carriage--or, if you haven't aspired to a carriage, the humble, useful
_tikka-gharry_--and drive away to the first house on the list, where
you ask the _durwan_ at the gate for _bokkus_. If the lady is not
receiving, he brings out a wooden box with the inscription "Mrs.
What's-her-name Not at home," you drop in your cards, and drive on to
the next. If the box is not out, then the _durwan_, taking the cards,
goes in to ask if his mistress is receiving, and comes back with her
salaams, and that means that one has to go in for a few minutes, but
it doesn't often happen. The funny part of it is one may have hundreds
of people on one's visiting list and not know half of them by sight,
because of the convenient system of the "Not-at-home" box.

The men's calling-time is Sunday between twelve and two. Such a
ridiculous time! One is certainly not at one's best at that hour.
Isn't it the Irish R.M. who talks of that blank time of day when
breakfast has died within one and lunch is not yet? I find it, on the
whole, entertaining, though somewhat trying; for Boggley, you see, has
to be out paying calls on his own account, and so I have to receive my
visitors alone. It is quite like a game.

A servant comes in and presents me with a card inscribed with a name
unfamiliar, and I, saying something that sounds like "Salaam do," wait
breathless for what may appear. A man comes in. We converse.

I begin: "Where will you sit?" (As there are only four chairs in the
room, the choice is not extensive.)

THE MAN _(seated and twirling his hat)_: "You have just c