Anglo-Indians lingered by the cathedral door. We asked them the name of the large, white peak that rose above the long, snowy ridge. "I don't know the name. The snows—just the snows—is what we always call them," said one Wee Willie.
Even the landlord made a wry face when we said we had come to see Simla as a tribute to Kipling; that we should not have been satisfied to leave India without visiting this scene of so many of his stories. We assured the landlord—manager, rather—that we could not have appreciated nor understood India but for Kipling, nor Kipling but for India; that we now realized our debt to Kipling and the measure of his genius. The manager did not make vigorous protest, like all the other Anglo-Indians, for the wise man quarrels not with his bread and butter, and women who make pleasure-trips to Simla in February are not to be held accountable beyond the regular per diem rates in rupees.
The nights at Simla were something to benumb an arctic explorer, and it was a relief to rise in darkness and leave the tonga station long before the sunrise glow was seen beyond Jakko's heights. As we galloped away and down, the shadow of the Plimalayas retreated from the tawny, hazy plain—a plain, as level and vast as the ocean, lying beneath the frost-haze. We had another sunny breakfast at Solon, and, timing our halts, we found two minutes by the watch sufficient to change ponies at any station. At ten minutes past two o'clock, seven hours after leaving Simla, we were at Kalka post-office, and a train soon carried us on to Ambala,
