quence, and only spoke to Dukes and Duchesses. The mother was called 'the Dead Codfish,' because she looked like one, and the daughter was christened 'the Duck'—not because people liked her, but because she had a duck-like beak. I never can understand why English people use the word 'duck' as a term of endearment. I shouldn't think it any compliment to be called a duck myself. A duck waddles, and looks a fool, and quacks—no, please don't call me a duck. Then there was Lady Maria Sandington going out as some big official's guest. She was very clever, but, like so many clever people, she was rather a fool. I mean, for instance, that she allowed my pompous friend of the Durbar train to make up to her, and seemed quite to like it. I believe she was pleased at his open admiration of her title and position, which shows she must have been a fool. Horrid, pompous little man! I found out who he was one day. It was while I was talking to one of a band of four young civilians just going out to take up their posts for the first time. We were sitting together when the pompous man passed by.
'You know who that is, don't you?' said the 'griffin.' I'm told the word 'griffin' has died out, but it ought to be revived. It means what you call a 'fresher' at Oxford—anyone young and green and fertile that you can play tricks upon. 'You know who that is, don't you?' It was not a question at all as he put it, but merely a statement of fact. His voice was almost a whisper in its awe and reverence. I at once felt flippant.
