Salt Inspector, he would have been a poet. I remember his rendering to this day....
'No, Queen Bee, it is no use rummaging those bookshelves. Nikhil has ceased to read poetry since his marriage,—perhaps he has no further need for it. But I suppose 'the fever fit of poesy,' as the Sanskrit has it, is about to attack me again.'
'I have come to give you a warning, Sandip,' said my husband.
'About the fever fit of poesy?'
My husband took no notice of this attempt at humour. 'For some time,' he continued, 'Mahomedan preachers have been about stirring up the local Mussulmans. They are all wild with you, and may attack you any moment.'
'Are you come to advise flight?'
'I have come to give you information, not to offer advice.'
'Had these estates been mine, such a warning would have been necessary for the preachers, not for me. If, instead of trying to frighten me, you give them a taste of your intimidation, that would be worthier both of you and me. Do you know that your weakness is weakening your neighbouring zamindars also?'
'I did not offer you my advice, Sandip. I wish you, too, would refrain from giving me yours. Besides, it is useless. And there is another thing I want to tell you. You and your followers have been secretly worrying and oppressing my tenan-
