"Bother The Mussuck! I mean an intellectual Power—not a gas-power. Polly, I'm going to start a salon."
Mrs. Mallowe turned lazily on the sofa, and rested her head on her hand. "Hear the words of the Preacher, the son of Baruch,"she began.
"Will you talk sensibly?"
"I will, dear, for I see that you are going to make a mistake."
"I never made a mistake in my life—at least, never one that I couldn't explain away afterwards."
"Going to make a mistake," went on Mrs. Mallowe, composedly. "It is impossible to start a salon in Simla. A bar would be much more to the point."
"Perhaps, but why? It seems so easy."
"Just what makes it so difficult. How many clever women are there in Simla?"
"Myself and yourself," said Mrs. Hauksbee, without a moment's hesitation.
"Modest woman! Mrs. Feardon would thank you for that. And how many clever men?"
"Oh—er—hundreds,"said Mrs. Hauksbee vaguely.
"What a fatal blunder! Not one. They are all bespoke by the Government. Take my husband, for instance. Jack used to be a clever man, though I say so who shouldn't. Government has eaten him up. All his ideas and powers of conversation-he really used to be a good talker, even to his wife, in the old days—are taken from him by this—this kitchen-sink of a Government. That's the case with every man up here who is at work. I don't suppose a Russian convict under the knout is able to amuse the rest of his gang; and all our men folk here are gilded convicts."
"But there are scores"
"I know what you're going to say. Scores of idle men up on leave. I admit it, but they are all of two objectionable sets. The Civilian who'd be delightful if he had the military man's knowledge of the world and style, and the military man who'd be adorable if he had the Civilian's culture."
