envelope. There was no address on the letter, only the words: An urgent matter—touching the Cause. Sandip.
I flung aside the embroidery. I was up on my feet in a moment, giving a touch or two to my hair by the mirror. I kept the sari I had on, changing only my jacket,—for one of my jackets had its associations.
I had to pass through one of the verandahs, where my sister-in-law used to sit in the morning slicing betel-nut. I refused to feel awkward. 'Whither away, Chota Rani?' she cried.
'To the sitting-room outside.'
'So early! A matinée, eh?'
And, as I passed on without further reply, she hummed after me a flippant song.
ix
When I was about to enter the sitting-room, I saw Sandip immersed in an illustrated catalogue of British Academy pictures, with his back to the door. He has a great notion of himself as an expert in matters of Art.
One day my husband said to him: 'If the artists ever want a teacher, they need never lack for one so long as you are there.' It had not been my husband's habit to speak cuttingly, but latterly there has been a change and he never spares Sandip.
'What makes you suppose that artists need no teachers?' Sandip retorted.
