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2
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
6) Data is recorded facts and figures; information is knowledge derived from data.
Answer: TRUE
AACSB: Information Technology
Difficulty: Easy
LO: To understand the nature and characteristics of databases
Classification: Concept

3
7) Databases record data in such a way that they can produce information.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
8) Enterprise Resource Planning (ERP) is an example of a data mining application.
Answer: FALSE
Difficulty: Moderate
LO: To survey some important and interesting database applications
9) Databases are a key component of e-commerce order entry, billing, shipping, and customer
support.
Answer: TRUE
10) The largest databases in e-commerce are the order entry databases.
Answer: FALSE
Difficulty: Difficult
11) E-commerce companies use Web activity databases to determine which items on a Web page
are popular and successful.
Answer: TRUE
LO: To understand the importance of databases in Internet Web applications and smartphone
apps
12) A surrogate key is a key typically used in place of a foreign key.
Answer: FALSE
Difficulty: Easy
13) A database system is typically defined as its four components: users, database applications,
the DBMS and the databases.

4
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
14) Databases based on the CODASYL standard are based on the network data model.
Answer: TRUE
LO: To understand the history and development of database processing
15) Applications are computer programs used directly by users.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
LO: To gain a general understanding of tables and relationships
16) Applications usually write data directly to the database.
Answer: FALSE
Difficulty: Easy
17) Sequenced Query Language (SQL) is an internationally recognized standard language that is
understood by all commercial database management system products.
Answer: FALSE
18) In database systems, indexes are held in the database.
Answer: TRUE
LO: To define the term database and describe what is contained within the database

5
19) A database management system (DBMS) creates, processes and administers databases.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
LO: To define the term database management system (DBMS) and describe the functions of a
DBMS
20) The database management system (DBMS) is responsible for inserting, modifying, reading,
and deleting data.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
DBMS
21) Knowledge workers are programmers who write applications that process the database.
Answer: TRUE
LO: To define and understand database design in database redesign
22) The database management system (DBMS) is responsible for enforcing referential integrity
constraints.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
DBMS
23) Referential integrity constraints are rules about what data values are allowed in certain
columns.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy

6
24) A database is a self-describing collection of non-integrated tables.
Answer: FALSE
25) Integrated tables store both data and the relationships among the data.
Answer: TRUE
26) Microsoft Access is just a DBMS.
Answer: FALSE
Difficulty: Easy
LO: To describe the components of a Microsoft Access database system and explain the
functions they perform
27) Microsoft Access is a low-end product intended for individuals and small workgroups.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
28) The current DBMS engine in Microsoft Access is called ADE.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
29) In Microsoft Access, you can use ODBC to connect to SQL Server in place of the ADE
database engine.
Answer: TRUE
Classification: Application

7
30) In an enterprise-class database system, a database application interacts with the DBMS.
Answer: TRUE
LO: To describe the components of an enterprise-class database system and explain the
31) In an enterprise-class database system, a database application accesses the database data.
Answer: FALSE
32) In an enterprise-class database system, business users interact directly with the DBMS,
which directly accesses the database data.
Answer: FALSE
33) All database applications send and receive database data by sending SQL statements to the
DBMS.
Answer: TRUE
DBMS
34) According to the text, IBM’s DB2 is the DBMS with the most power and features.
Answer: FALSE
35) According to the text, Oracle Corporation’s Oracle Database is considered the most difficult
DBMS to use.
Answer: TRUE

8
36) According to the text, Microsoft’s SQL Server is the easiest DBMS to use.
Answer: FALSE
37) According to the text, Microsoft Access has the least power and features of any major
DBMS.
Answer: TRUE
38) A database is called self-describing because it reduces data duplication.
Answer: FALSE
LO: To define the term metadata and provide examples of metadata
39) The description of a database's structure that is stored within the database itself is called the
metadata.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
LO: To define the term metadata and provide examples of metadata
40) Indexes are data structures that speed database searches.
Answer: TRUE
41) Database design is important, and fortunately it is simple to do.
Answer: FALSE
Difficulty: Easy
LO: To define and understand database design from existing data

9
42) A database design may be part of a new systems development project.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
LO: To define and understand database design as new systems development
43) A database design is rarely a redesign of an existing database.
Answer: FALSE
Difficulty: Easy
LO: To define and understand database design in database redesign
44) Each row in a database table is also known as a record.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
45) Data Language/I (DL/I) structured data relationships as a tree structure.
Answer: TRUE
46) The CODASYL DBTG model structured data relationships as a tree structure.
Answer: FALSE
47) The relational model was first proposed in 1970 by E. F. Codd at IBM.
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy

10
48) The 1977 edition of this text contained a chapter on the relational model, and that chapter
was reviewed by E. F. Codd.
Answer: TRUE
49) dBase was the first PC-based DBMS to implement true relational algebra on a PC.
Answer: FALSE
50) Paradox is the only major survivor of the "bloodbath of PC DBMS products."
Answer: FALSE
51) Business organizations have resisted adopting object-oriented database systems because the
cost of purchasing OODBMS packages is prohibitively high.
Answer: FALSE
52) Bill Gates has said that "XML is the lingua-franca of the Internet Age."
Answer: TRUE
Difficulty: Easy
53) XML Web services allow database processing to be shared across the Internet.
Answer: TRUE
apps

11
54) The NoSQL movement could also be called a NoRelational movement.
Answer: TRUE
55) Twitter and Facebook use NoSQL databases.
Answer: TRUE
LO: To understand the history and development of database processing Classification: Concept
56) The purpose of a database is to ________.
A) help people keep track of things
B) store data in tables
C) create tables of rows and columns
D) maintain data on different things in different tables
Answer: A
57) A database stores ________.
A) data
B) relationships
C) applications
D) Both A and B are correct
Answer: D
58) Which of the following statements is true about Web 2.0?
A) It requires the Android Operating System.
B) It allows users to add content to Web sites.
C) Twitter and Facebook are examples of Web 2.0 sites.
D) Both B and C are correct
Answer: D
Difficulty: Easy
apps

12
59) A sales contact manager used by a salesperson is an example of a(n) ________.
A) single-user database application
B) multiuser database application
C) e-commerce database application
D) data mining application
Answer: A
60) A Customer Resource Management (CRM) system is an example of a(n) ________.
D) digital dashboard
Answer: B
61) An online drugstore such as Drugstore.com is an example of a(n) ________.
D) enterprise resource planning system
Answer: C
Difficulty: Easy
62) The industry standard supported by all major DBMSs that allows tables to be joined together
is called ________.
A) Sequential Query Language (SQL)
B) Structured Question Language (SQL)
C) Structured Query Language (SQL)
D) Standard Question Language (SQL)
Answer: C
Difficulty: Easy
63) A program whose job is to create, process and administer databases is called a ________.
A) database modeling system

13
B) database management system
C) data business model system
D) relational model manager
Answer: B
Difficulty: Easy
DBMS
64) Microsoft Access includes ________.
A) a DBMS
B) an application generator
C) a Web server
Answer: D
65) Microsoft Access may use which of the following DBMS engines?
A) ADE
B) SQL Server
C) Oracle
Answer: D
66) Which of the following is not an XML Web service standard?
A) SOAP
B) WSDL
C) Ethernet
D) UDDI
Answer: C
apps
67) Which of the following statements is not true for an enterprise-class database system?

14
A) The database application(s) interact(s) with the DBMS.
B) The database application(s) directly access(es) the database data.
C) The DBMS accesses the database data.
D) The application generates SQL statements.
Answer: B
68) Which of the following database systems is not enterprise-class?
A) Microsoft SQL Server
B) Microsoft Access
C) Oracle Database
D) IBM DB2
Answer: B
69) In an enterprise-class database system, reports are created by ________.
A) the user
B) the database application
C) the database management system (DBMS)
D) the database
Answer: B
70) Hypertext Transport Protocol (HTTP) is a technology used to ________.
A) connect servers to a client in a Client-Server architecture
B) connect to web pages over the Internet
C) connect applications to a DBMS
D) connect hardware devices to a computer system
Answer: B
AACSB:
Classification:

15
71) In database systems, the DBMS enforces rules about which data can be written in certain
columns. These rules are known as ________.
A) data insertion control
B) data modification control
C) concurrency control
D) referential integrity constraints
Answer: D
DBMS
72) In database systems, the DBMS enforces rules about which user can perform which action
when. The rules are known as ________.
A) referential integrity constraints
B) data modification control
C) data reading control
D) concurrency control
Answer: D
DBMS
73) A database is considered self-describing because ________.
A) all the users' data is in one place
B) it reduces data duplication
C) it contains a description of its own structure
D) it contains a listing of all the programs that use it
Answer: C
Difficulty: Easy
74) A database consists of integrated tables, which store ________.
A) reports
B) data and relationships among the data
C) forms
D) Both A and C are correct
Answer: B
Difficulty: Easy

16
75) Which of the following statements is not true for primary keys in a relational database
system?
A) They can be used to create relationships between tables.
B) They must contain numeric data.
C) They uniquely identify a row in a table.
D) They can be part of relational integrity constraints.
Answer: B
76) This database component is used to maintain database accuracy and enforce data constraints.
A) tables
B) metadata
C) triggers
D) stored procedures
Answer: C
77) This database component can be used as part of applications and for administration tasks.
A) tables
B) metadata
C) triggers
D) stored procedures
Answer: D
78) A database designed using spreadsheets from the Sales department is a database being
designed ________.
A) from existing data
B) as a new systems development project
C) as a redesign of an existing database
D) as a NoSQL database
Answer: A
LO: To define and understand database design from existing data

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he was the chuprassi of the Civil Surgeon, and he handed Aziz a
note.
“Old Callendar wants to see me at his bungalow,” he said, not
rising. “He might have the politeness to say why.”
“Some case, I daresay.”
“I daresay not, I daresay nothing. He has found out our dinner
hour, that’s all, and chooses to interrupt us every time, in order to
show his power.”
“On the one hand he always does this, on the other it may be a
serious case, and you cannot know,” said Hamidullah, considerately
paving the way towards obedience. “Had you not better clean your
teeth after pan?”
“If my teeth are to be cleaned, I don’t go at all. I am an Indian, it
is an Indian habit to take pan. The Civil Surgeon must put up with it.
Mohammed Latif, my bike, please.”
The poor relation got up. Slightly immersed in the realms of
matter, he laid his hand on the bicycle’s saddle, while a servant did
the actual wheeling. Between them they took it over a tintack. Aziz
held his hands under the ewer, dried them, fitted on his green felt
hat, and then with unexpected energy whizzed out of Hamidullah’s
compound.
“Aziz, Aziz, imprudent boy. . . .” But he was far down the bazaar,
riding furiously. He had neither light nor bell nor had he a brake, but
what use are such adjuncts in a land where the cyclist’s only hope is
to coast from face to face, and just before he collides with each it
vanishes? And the city was fairly empty at this hour. When his tyre
went flat, he leapt off and shouted for a tonga.
He did not at first find one, and he had also to dispose of his
bicycle at a friend’s house. He dallied furthermore to clean his teeth.

But at last he was rattling towards the civil lines, with a vivid sense
of speed. As he entered their arid tidiness, depression suddenly
seized him. The roads, named after victorious generals and
intersecting at right angles, were symbolic of the net Great Britain
had thrown over India. He felt caught in their meshes. When he
turned into Major Callendar’s compound he could with difficulty
restrain himself from getting down from the tonga and approaching
the bungalow on foot, and this not because his soul was servile but
because his feelings—the sensitive edges of him—feared a gross
snub. There had been a “case” last year—an Indian gentleman had
driven up to an official’s house and been turned back by the servants
and been told to approach more suitably—only one case among
thousands of visits to hundreds of officials, but its fame spread wide.
The young man shrank from a repetition of it. He compromised, and
stopped the driver just outside the flood of light that fell across the
verandah.
The Civil Surgeon was out.
“But the sahib has left me some message?”
The servant returned an indifferent “No.” Aziz was in despair. It
was a servant whom he had forgotten to tip, and he could do
nothing now because there were people in the hall. He was
convinced that there was a message, and that the man was
withholding it out of revenge. While they argued, the people came
out. Both were ladies. Aziz lifted his hat. The first, who was in
evening dress, glanced at the Indian and turned instinctively away.
“Mrs. Lesley, it is a tonga,” she cried.
“Ours?” enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and doing likewise.
“Take the gifts the gods provide, anyhow,” she screeched, and
both jumped in. “O Tonga wallah, club, club. Why doesn’t the fool
go?”

“Go, I will pay you to-morrow,” said Aziz to the driver, and as they
went off he called courteously, “You are most welcome, ladies.” They
did not reply, being full of their own affairs.
So it had come, the usual thing—just as Mahmoud Ali said. The
inevitable snub—his bow ignored, his carriage taken. It might have
been worse, for it comforted him somehow that Mesdames Callendar
and Lesley should both be fat and weigh the tonga down behind.
Beautiful women would have pained him. He turned to the servant,
gave him a couple of rupees, and asked again whether there was a
message. The man, now very civil, returned the same answer. Major
Callendar had driven away half an hour before.
“Saying nothing?”
He had as a matter of fact said, “Damn Aziz”—words that the
servant understood, but was too polite to repeat. One can tip too
much as well as too little, indeed the coin that buys the exact truth
has not yet been minted.
“Then I will write him a letter.”
He was offered the use of the house, but was too dignified to
enter it. Paper and ink were brought on to the verandah. He began:
“Dear Sir,—At your express command I have hastened as a
subordinate should——” and then stopped. “Tell him I have called,
that is sufficient,” he said, tearing the protest up. “Here is my card.
Call me a tonga.”
“Huzoor, all are at the club.”
“Then telephone for one down to the railway station.” And since
the man hastened to do this he said, “Enough, enough, I prefer to
walk.” He commandeered a match and lit a cigarette. These
attentions, though purchased, soothed him. They would last as long
as he had rupees, which is something. But to shake the dust of
Anglo-India off his feet! To escape from the net and be back among

manners and gestures that he knew! He began a walk, an unwonted
exercise.
He was an athletic little man, daintily put together, but really very
strong. Nevertheless walking fatigued him, as it fatigues everyone in
India except the new-comer. There is something hostile in that soil.
It either yields, and the foot sinks into a depression, or else it is
unexpectedly rigid and sharp, pressing stones or crystals against the
tread. A series of these little surprises exhausts; and he was wearing
pumps, a poor preparation for any country. At the edge of the civil
station he turned into a mosque to rest.
He had always liked this mosque. It was gracious, and the
arrangement pleased him. The courtyard—entered through a ruined
gate—contained an ablution tank of fresh clear water, which was
always in motion, being indeed part of a conduit that supplied the
city. The courtyard was paved with broken slabs. The covered part of
the mosque was deeper than is usual; its effect was that of an
English parish church whose side has been taken out. Where he sat,
he looked into three arcades whose darkness was illuminated by a
small hanging lamp and by the moon. The front—in full moonlight—
had the appearance of marble, and the ninety-nine names of God on
the frieze stood out black, as the frieze stood out white against the
sky. The contest between this dualism and the contention of
shadows within pleased Aziz, and he tried to symbolize the whole
into some truth of religion or love. A mosque by winning his approval
let loose his imagination. The temple of another creed, Hindu,
Christian, or Greek, would have bored him and failed to awaken his
sense of beauty. Here was Islam, his own country, more than a
Faith, more than a battle-cry, more, much more . . . Islam, an
attitude towards life both exquisite and durable, where his body and
his thoughts found their home.
His seat was the low wall that bounded the courtyard on the left.
The ground fell away beneath him towards the city, visible as a blur
of trees, and in the stillness he heard many small sounds. On the

right, over in the club, the English community contributed an
amateur orchestra. Elsewhere some Hindus were drumming—he
knew they were Hindus, because the rhythm was uncongenial to
him,—and others were bewailing a corpse—he knew whose, having
certified it in the afternoon. There were owls, the Punjab mail . . .
and flowers smelt deliciously in the station-master’s garden. But the
mosque—that alone signified, and he returned to it from the
complex appeal of the night, and decked it with meanings the
builder had never intended. Some day he too would build a mosque,
smaller than this but in perfect taste, so that all who passed by
should experience the happiness he felt now. And near it, under a
low dome, should be his tomb, with a Persian inscription:
Alas, without me for thousands of years
The Rose will blossom and the Spring will bloom,
But those who have secretly understood my heart—
They will approach and visit the grave where I lie.
He had seen the quatrain on the tomb of a Deccan king, and
regarded it as profound philosophy—he always held pathos to be
profound. The secret understanding of the heart! He repeated the
phrase with tears in his eyes, and as he did so one of the pillars of
the mosque seemed to quiver. It swayed in the gloom and detached
itself. Belief in ghosts ran in his blood, but he sat firm. Another pillar
moved, a third, and then an Englishwoman stepped out into the
moonlight. Suddenly he was furiously angry and shouted: “Madam!
Madam! Madam!”
“Oh! Oh!” the woman gasped.
“Madam, this is a mosque, you have no right here at all; you
should have taken off your shoes; this is a holy place for Moslems.”
“I have taken them off.”
“You have?”

“I left them at the entrance.”
“Then I ask your pardon.”
Still startled, the woman moved out, keeping the ablution-tank
between them. He called after her, “I am truly sorry for speaking.”
“Yes, I was right, was I not? If I remove my shoes, I am allowed?”
“Of course, but so few ladies take the trouble, especially if
thinking no one is there to see.”
“That makes no difference. God is here.”
“Madam!”
“Please let me go.”
“Oh, can I do you some service now or at any time?”
“No, thank you, really none—good night.”
“May I know your name?”
She was now in the shadow of the gateway, so that he could not
see her face, but she saw his, and she said with a change of voice,
“Mrs. Moore.”
“Mrs.——” Advancing, he found that she was old.
A fabric bigger than the mosque fell to pieces, and he did not
know whether he was glad or sorry. She was older than Hamidullah
Begum, with a red face and white hair. Her voice had deceived him.
“Mrs. Moore, I am afraid I startled you. I shall tell my community
—our friends—about you. That God is here—very good, very fine
indeed. I think you are newly arrived in India.”

“Yes—how did you know?”
“By the way you address me. No, but can I call you a carriage?”
“I have only come from the club. They are doing a play that I
have seen in London, and it was so hot.”
“What was the name of the play?”
“Cousin Kate.”
“I think you ought not to walk at night alone, Mrs. Moore. There
are bad characters about and leopards may come across from the
Marabar Hills. Snakes also.”
She exclaimed; she had forgotten the snakes.
“For example, a six-spot beetle,” he continued, “You pick it up, it
bites, you die.”
“But you walk about yourself.”
“Oh, I am used to it.”
“Used to snakes?”
They both laughed. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “Snakes don’t dare bite
me.” They sat down side by side in the entrance, and slipped on
their evening shoes. “Please may I ask you a question now? Why do
you come to India at this time of year, just as the cold weather is
ending?”
“I intended to start earlier, but there was an unavoidable delay.”
“It will soon be so unhealthy for you! And why ever do you come
to Chandrapore?”
“To visit my son. He is the City Magistrate here.”

“Oh no, excuse me, that is quite impossible. Our City Magistrate’s
name is Mr. Heaslop. I know him intimately.”
“He’s my son all the same,” she said, smiling.
“But, Mrs. Moore, how can he be?”
“I was married twice.”
“Yes, now I see, and your first husband died.”
“He did, and so did my second husband.”
“Then we are in the same box,” he said cryptically. “Then is the
City Magistrate the entire of your family now?”
“No, there are the younger ones—Ralph and Stella in England.”
“And the gentleman here, is he Ralph and Stella’s half-brother?”
“Quite right.”
“Mrs. Moore, this is all extremely strange, because like yourself I
have also two sons and a daughter. Is not this the same box with a
vengeance?”
“What are their names? Not also Ronny, Ralph, and Stella, surely?”
The suggestion delighted him. “No, indeed. How funny it sounds!
Their names are quite different and will surprise you. Listen, please.
I am about to tell you my children’s names. The first is called
Ahmed, the second is called Karim, the third—she is the eldest—
Jamila. Three children are enough. Do not you agree with me?”
“I do.”
They were both silent for a little, thinking of their respective
families. She sighed and rose to go.

“Would you care to see over the Minto Hospital one morning?” he
enquired. “I have nothing else to offer at Chandrapore.”
“Thank you, I have seen it already, or I should have liked to come
with you very much.”
“I suppose the Civil Surgeon took you.”
“Yes, and Mrs. Callendar.”
His voice altered. “Ah! A very charming lady.”
“Possibly, when one knows her better.”
“What? What? You didn’t like her?”
“She was certainly intending to be kind, but I did not find her
exactly charming.”
He burst out with: “She has just taken my tonga without my
permission—do you call that being charming?—and Major Callendar
interrupts me night after night from where I am dining with my
friends and I go at once, breaking up a most pleasant
entertainment, and he is not there and not even a message. Is this
charming, pray? But what does it matter? I can do nothing and he
knows it. I am just a subordinate, my time is of no value, the
verandah is good enough for an Indian, yes, yes, let him stand, and
Mrs. Callendar takes my carriage and cuts me dead . . .”
She listened.
He was excited partly by his wrongs, but much more by the
knowledge that someone sympathized with them. It was this that
led him to repeat, exaggerate, contradict. She had proved her
sympathy by criticizing her fellow-countrywoman to him, but even
earlier he had known. The flame that not even beauty can nourish

was springing up, and though his words were querulous his heart
began to glow secretly. Presently it burst into speech.
“You understand me, you know what others feel. Oh, if others
resembled you!”
Rather surprised, she replied: “I don’t think I understand people
very well. I only know whether I like or dislike them.”
“Then you are an Oriental.”
She accepted his escort back to the club, and said at the gate that
she wished she was a member, so that she could have asked him in.
“Indians are not allowed into the Chandrapore Club even as
guests,” he said simply. He did not expatiate on his wrongs now,
being happy. As he strolled downhill beneath the lovely moon, and
again saw the lovely mosque, he seemed to own the land as much
as anyone owned it. What did it matter if a few flabby Hindus had
preceded him there, and a few chilly English succeeded?

CHAPTER III
The third act of Cousin Kate was well advanced by the time Mrs.
Moore re-entered the club. Windows were barred, lest the servants
should see their mem-sahibs acting, and the heat was consequently
immense. One electric fan revolved like a wounded bird, another
was out of order. Disinclined to return to the audience, she went into
the billiard room, where she was greeted by “I want to see the real
India,” and her appropriate life came back with a rush. This was
Adela Quested, the queer, cautious girl whom Ronny had
commissioned her to bring from England, and Ronny was her son,
also cautious, whom Miss Quested would probably though not
certainly marry, and she herself was an elderly lady.
“I want to see it too, and I only wish we could. Apparently the
Turtons will arrange something for next Tuesday.”
“It’ll end in an elephant ride, it always does. Look at this evening.
Cousin Kate! Imagine, Cousin Kate! But where have you been off to?
Did you succeed in catching the moon in the Ganges?”
The two ladies had happened, the night before, to see the moon’s
reflection in a distant channel of the stream. The water had drawn it
out, so that it had seemed larger than the real moon, and brighter,
which had pleased them.
“I went to the mosque, but I did not catch the moon.”
“The angle would have altered—she rises later.”
“Later and later,” yawned Mrs. Moore, who was tired after her
walk. “Let me think—we don’t see the other side of the moon out

here, no.”
“Come, India’s not as bad as all that,” said a pleasant voice.
“Other side of the earth, if you like, but we stick to the same old
moon.” Neither of them knew the speaker nor did they ever see him
again. He passed with his friendly word through red-brick pillars into
the darkness.
“We aren’t even seeing the other side of the world; that’s our
complaint,” said Adela. Mrs. Moore agreed; she too was disappointed
at the dullness of their new life. They had made such a romantic
voyage across the Mediterranean and through the sands of Egypt to
the harbour of Bombay, to find only a gridiron of bungalows at the
end of it. But she did not take the disappointment as seriously as
Miss Quested, for the reason that she was forty years older, and had
learnt that Life never gives us what we want at the moment that we
consider appropriate. Adventures do occur, but not punctually. She
said again that she hoped that something interesting would be
arranged for next Tuesday.
“Have a drink,” said another pleasant voice. “Mrs. Moore—Miss
Quested—have a drink, have two drinks.” They knew who it was this
time—the Collector, Mr. Turton, with whom they had dined. Like
themselves, he had found the atmosphere of Cousin Kate too hot.
Ronny, he told them, was stage-managing in place of Major
Callendar, whom some native subordinate or other had let down,
and doing it very well; then he turned to Ronny’s other merits, and
in quiet, decisive tones said much that was flattering. It wasn’t that
the young man was particularly good at the games or the lingo, or
that he had much notion of the Law, but—apparently a large but—
Ronny was dignified.
Mrs. Moore was surprised to learn this, dignity not being a quality
with which any mother credits her son. Miss Quested learnt it with
anxiety, for she had not decided whether she liked dignified men.
She tried indeed to discuss this point with Mr. Turton, but he silenced

her with a good-humoured motion of his hand, and continued what
he had come to say. “The long and the short of it is Heaslop’s a
sahib; he’s the type we want, he’s one of us,” and another civilian
who was leaning over the billiard table said, “Hear, hear!” The matter
was thus placed beyond doubt, and the Collector passed on, for
other duties called him.
Meanwhile the performance ended, and the amateur orchestra
played the National Anthem. Conversation and billiards stopped,
faces stiffened. It was the Anthem of the Army of Occupation. It
reminded every member of the club that he or she was British and in
exile. It produced a little sentiment and a useful accession of will-
power. The meagre tune, the curt series of demands on Jehovah,
fused into a prayer unknown in England, and though they perceived
neither Royalty nor Deity they did perceive something, they were
strengthened to resist another day. Then they poured out, offering
one another drinks.
“Adela, have a drink; mother, a drink.”
They refused—they were weary of drinks—and Miss Quested, who
always said exactly what was in her mind, announced anew that she
was desirous of seeing the real India.
Ronny was in high spirits. The request struck him as comic, and
he called out to another passer-by: “Fielding! how’s one to see the
real India?”
“Try seeing Indians,” the man answered, and vanished.
“Who was that?”
“Our schoolmaster—Government College.”
“As if one could avoid seeing them,” sighed Mrs. Lesley.

“I’ve avoided,” said Miss Quested. “Excepting my own servant, I’ve
scarcely spoken to an Indian since landing.”
“Oh, lucky you.”
“But I want to see them.”
She became the centre of an amused group of ladies. One said,
“Wanting to see Indians! How new that sounds!” Another, “Natives!
why, fancy!” A third, more serious, said, “Let me explain. Natives
don’t respect one any the more after meeting one, you see.”
“That occurs after so many meetings.”
But the lady, entirely stupid and friendly, continued: “What I mean
is, I was a nurse before my marriage, and came across them a great
deal, so I know. I really do know the truth about Indians. A most
unsuitable position for any Englishwoman—I was a nurse in a Native
State. One’s only hope was to hold sternly aloof.”
“Even from one’s patients?”
“Why, the kindest thing one can do to a native is to let him die,”
said Mrs. Callendar.
“How if he went to heaven?” asked Mrs. Moore, with a gentle but
crooked smile.
“He can go where he likes as long as he doesn’t come near me.
They give me the creeps.”
“As a matter of fact I have thought what you were saying about
heaven, and that is why I am against Missionaries,” said the lady
who had been a nurse. “I am all for Chaplains, but all against
Missionaries. Let me explain.”
But before she could do so, the Collector intervened.

“Do you really want to meet the Aryan Brother, Miss Quested?
That can be easily fixed up. I didn’t realize he’d amuse you.” He
thought a moment. “You can practically see any type you like. Take
your choice. I know the Government people and the landowners,
Heaslop here can get hold of the barrister crew, while if you want to
specialize on education, we can come down on Fielding.”
“I’m tired of seeing picturesque figures pass before me as a
frieze,” the girl explained. “It was wonderful when we landed, but
that superficial glamour soon goes.”
Her impressions were of no interest to the Collector; he was only
concerned to give her a good time. Would she like a Bridge Party?
He explained to her what that was—not the game, but a party to
bridge the gulf between East and West; the expression was his own
invention, and amused all who heard it.
“I only want those Indians whom you come across socially—as
your friends.”
“Well, we don’t come across them socially,” he said, laughing.
“They’re full of all the virtues, but we don’t, and it’s now eleven-
thirty, and too late to go into the reasons.”
“Miss Quested, what a name!” remarked Mrs. Turton to her
husband as they drove away. She had not taken to the new young
lady, thinking her ungracious and cranky. She trusted that she hadn’t
been brought out to marry nice little Heaslop, though it looked like
it, Her husband agreed with her in his heart, but he never spoke
against an Englishwoman if he could avoid doing so, and he only
said that Miss Quested naturally made mistakes. He added: “India
does wonders for the judgment, especially during the hot weather; it
has even done wonders for Fielding.” Mrs. Turton closed her eyes at
this name and remarked that Mr. Fielding wasn’t pukka, and had
better marry Miss Quested, for she wasn’t pukka. Then they reached
their bungalow, low and enormous, the oldest and most

uncomfortable bungalow in the civil station, with a sunk soup plate
of a lawn, and they had one drink more, this time of barley water,
and went to bed. Their withdrawal from the club had broken up the
evening, which, like all gatherings, had an official tinge. A
community that bows the knee to a Viceroy and believes that the
divinity that hedges a king can be transplanted, must feel some
reverence for any viceregal substitute. At Chandrapore the Turtons
were little gods; soon they would retire to some suburban villa, and
die exiled from glory.
“It’s decent of the Burra Sahib,” chattered Ronny, much gratified at
the civility that had been shown to his guests. “Do you know he’s
never given a Bridge Party before? Coming on top of the dinner too!
I wish I could have arranged something myself, but when you know
the natives better you’ll realize it’s easier for the Burra Sahib than for
me. They know him—they know he can’t be fooled—I’m still fresh
comparatively. No one can even begin to think of knowing this
country until he has been in it twenty years.—Hullo, the mater!
Here’s your cloak.—Well: for an example of the mistakes one makes.
Soon after I came out I asked one of the Pleaders to have a smoke
with me—only a cigarette, mind. I found afterwards that he had sent
touts all over the bazaar to announce the fact—told all the litigants,
'Oh, you’d better come to my Vakil Mahmoud Ali—he’s in with the
City Magistrate.’ Ever since then I’ve dropped on him in Court as
hard as I could. It’s taught me a lesson, and I hope him.”
“Isn’t the lesson that you should invite all the Pleaders to have a
smoke with you?”
“Perhaps, but time’s limited and the flesh weak. I prefer my smoke
at the club amongst my own sort, I’m afraid.”
“Why not ask the Pleaders to the club?” Miss Quested persisted.
“Not allowed.” He was pleasant and patient, and evidently
understood why she did not understand. He implied that he had

once been as she, though not for long. Going to the verandah, he
called firmly to the moon. His sais answered, and without lowering
his head, he ordered his trap to be brought round.
Mrs. Moore, whom the club had stupefied, woke up outside. She
watched the moon, whose radiance stained with primrose the purple
of the surrounding sky. In England the moon had seemed dead and
alien; here she was caught in the shawl of night together with earth
and all the other stars. A sudden sense of unity, of kinship with the
heavenly bodies, passed into the old woman and out, like water
through a tank, leaving a strange freshness behind. She did not
dislike Cousin Kate or the National Anthem, but their note had died
into a new one, just as cocktails and cigars had died into invisible
flowers. When the mosque, long and domeless, gleamed at the turn
of the road, she exclaimed, “Oh, yes—that’s where I got to—that’s
where I’ve been.”
“Been there when?” asked her son.
“Between the acts.”
“But, mother, you can’t do that sort of thing.”
“Can’t mother?” she replied.
“No, really not in this country. It’s not done. There’s the danger
from snakes for one thing. They are apt to lie out in the evening.”
“Ah yes, so the young man there said.”
“This sounds very romantic,” said Miss Quested, who was
exceedingly fond of Mrs. Moore, and was glad she should have had
this little escapade. “You meet a young man in a mosque, and then
never let me know!”
“I was going to tell you, Adela, but something changed the
conversation and I forgot. My memory grows deplorable.”

“Was he nice?”
She paused, then said emphatically: “Very nice.”
“Who was he?” Ronny enquired.
“A doctor. I don’t know his name.”
“A doctor? I know of no young doctor in Chandrapore. How odd!
What was he like?”
“Rather small, with a little moustache and quick eyes. He called
out to me when I was in the dark part of the mosque—about my
shoes. That was how we began talking. He was afraid I had them
on, but I remembered luckily. He told me about his children, and
then we walked back to the club. He knows you well.”
“I wish you had pointed him out to me. I can’t make out who he
is.”
“He didn’t come into the club. He said he wasn’t allowed to.”
Thereupon the truth struck him, and he cried “Oh, good gracious!
Not a Mohammedan? Why ever didn’t you tell me you’d been talking
to a native? I was going all wrong.”
“A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!” exclaimed Miss
Quested. “Ronny, isn’t that like your mother? While we talk about
seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she’s
seen it.”
But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother’s description he had
thought the doctor might be young Muggins from over the Ganges,
and had brought out all the comradely emotions. What a mix-up!
Why hadn’t she indicated by the tone of her voice that she was
talking about an Indian? Scratchy and dictatorial, he began to
question her. “He called to you in the mosque, did he? How?

Impudently? What was he doing there himself at that time of night?
—No, it’s not their prayer time.”—This in answer to a suggestion of
Miss Quested’s, who showed the keenest interest. “So he called to
you over your shoes. Then it was impudence. It’s an old trick. I wish
you had had them on.”
“I think it was impudence, but I don’t know about a trick,” said
Mrs. Moore. “His nerves were all on edge—I could tell from his voice.
As soon as I answered he altered.”
“You oughtn’t to have answered.”
“Now look here,” said the logical girl, “wouldn’t you expect a
Mohammedan to answer if you asked him to take off his hat in
church?”
“It’s different, it’s different; you don’t understand.”
“I know I don’t, and I want to. What is the difference, please?”
He wished she wouldn’t interfere. His mother did not signify—she
was just a globe-trotter, a temporary escort, who could retire to
England with what impressions she chose. But Adela, who meditated
spending her life in the country, was a more serious matter; it would
be tiresome if she started crooked over the native question. Pulling
up the mare, he said, “There’s your Ganges.”
Their attention was diverted. Below them a radiance had suddenly
appeared. It belonged neither to water nor moonlight, but stood like
a luminous sheaf upon the fields of darkness. He told them that it
was where the new sand-bank was forming, and that the dark
ravelled bit at the top was the sand, and that the dead bodies
floated down that way from Benares, or would if the crocodiles let
them. “It’s not much of a dead body that gets down to
Chandrapore.”

“Crocodiles down in it too, how terrible!” his mother murmured.
The young people glanced at each other and smiled; it amused them
when the old lady got these gentle creeps, and harmony was
restored between them consequently. She continued: “What a
terrible river! what a wonderful river!” and sighed. The radiance was
already altering, whether through shifting of the moon or of the
sand; soon the bright sheaf would be gone, and a circlet, itself to
alter, be burnished upon the streaming void. The women discussed
whether they would wait for the change or not, while the silence
broke into patches of unquietness and the mare shivered. On her
account they did not wait, but drove on to the City Magistrate’s
bungalow, where Miss Quested went to bed, and Mrs. Moore had a
short interview with her son.
He wanted to enquire about the Mohammedan doctor in the
mosque. It was his duty to report suspicious characters and
conceivably it was some disreputable hakim who had prowled up
from the bazaar. When she told him that it was someone connected
with the Minto Hospital, he was relieved, and said that the fellow’s
name must be Aziz, and that he was quite all right, nothing against
him at all.
“Aziz! what a charming name!”
“So you and he had a talk. Did you gather he was well disposed?”
Ignorant of the force of this question, she replied, “Yes, quite,
after the first moment.”
“I meant, generally. Did he seem to tolerate us—the brutal
conqueror, the sundried bureaucrat, that sort of thing?”
“Oh, yes, I think so, except the Callendars—he doesn’t care for
the Callendars at all.”
“Oh. So he told you that, did he? The Major will be interested. I
wonder what was the aim of the remark.”

“Ronny, Ronny! you’re never going to pass it on to Major
Callendar?”
“Yes, rather. I must, in fact!”
“But, my dear boy——”
“If the Major heard I was disliked by any native subordinate of
mine, I should expect him to pass it on to me.”
“But, my dear boy—a private conversation!”
“Nothing’s private in India. Aziz knew that when he spoke out, so
don’t you worry. He had some motive in what he said. My personal
belief is that the remark wasn’t true.”
“How not true?”
“He abused the Major in order to impress you.”
“I don’t know what you mean, dear.”
“It’s the educated native’s latest dodge. They used to cringe, but
the younger generation believe in a show of manly independence.
They think it will pay better with the itinerant M.P. But whether the
native swaggers or cringes, there’s always something behind every
remark he makes, always something, and if nothing else he’s trying
to increase his izzat—in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of course there
are exceptions.”
“You never used to judge people like this at home.”
“India isn’t home,” he retorted, rather rudely, but in order to
silence her he had been using phrases and arguments that he had
picked up from older officials, and he did not feel quite sure of
himself. When he said “of course there are exceptions” he was
quoting Mr. Turton, while “increasing the izzat” was Major Callendar’s

own. The phrases worked and were in current use at the club, but
she was rather clever at detecting the first from the second hand,
and might press him for definite examples.
She only said, “I can’t deny that what you say sounds very
sensible, but you really must not hand on to Major Callendar
anything I have told you about Doctor Aziz.”
He felt disloyal to his caste, but he promised, adding, “In return
please don’t talk about Aziz to Adela.”
“Not talk about him? Why?”
“There you go again, mother—I really can’t explain every thing. I
don’t want Adela to be worried, that’s the fact; she’ll begin
wondering whether we treat the natives properly, and all that sort of
nonsense.”
“But she came out to be worried—that’s exactly why she’s here.
She discussed it all on the boat. We had a long talk when we went
on shore at Aden. She knows you in play, as she put it, but not in
work, and she felt she must come and look round, before she
decided—and before you decided. She is very, very fair-minded.”
“I know,” he said dejectedly.
The note of anxiety in his voice made her feel that he was still a
little boy, who must have what he liked, so she promised to do as he
wished, and they kissed good night. He had not forbidden her to
think about Aziz, however, and she did this when she retired to her
room. In the light of her son’s comment she reconsidered the scene
at the mosque, to see whose impression was correct. Yes, it could
be worked into quite an unpleasant scene. The doctor had begun by
bullying her, had said Mrs. Callendar was nice, and then—finding the
ground safe—had changed; he had alternately whined over his
grievances and patronized her, had run a dozen ways in a single
sentence, had been unreliable, inquisitive, vain. Yes, it was all true,

but how false as a summary of the man; the essential life of him had
been slain.
Going to hang up her cloak, she found that the tip of the peg was
occupied by a small wasp. She had known this wasp or his relatives
by day; they were not as English wasps, but had long yellow legs
which hung down behind when they flew. Perhaps he mistook the
peg for a branch—no Indian animal has any sense of an interior.
Bats, rats, birds, insects will as soon nest inside a house as out; it is
to them a normal growth of the eternal jungle, which alternately
produces houses trees, houses trees. There he clung, asleep, while
jackals in the plain bayed their desires and mingled with the
percussion of drums.
“Pretty dear,” said Mrs. Moore to the wasp. He did not wake, but
her voice floated out, to swell the night’s uneasiness.

CHAPTER IV
The Collector kept his word. Next day he issued invitation cards to
numerous Indian gentlemen in the neighbourhood, stating that he
would be at home in the garden of the club between the hours of
five and seven on the following Tuesday, also that Mrs. Turton would
be glad to receive any ladies of their families who were out of
purdah. His action caused much excitement and was discussed in
several worlds.
“It is owing to orders from the L.G.,” was Mahmoud Ali’s
explanation. “Turton would never do this unless compelled. Those
high officials are different—they sympathize, the Viceroy
sympathizes, they would have us treated properly. But they come
too seldom and live too far away. Meanwhile——”
“It is easy to sympathize at a distance,” said an old gentleman
with a beard. “I value more the kind word that is spoken close to my
ear. Mr. Turton has spoken it, from whatever cause. He speaks, we
hear. I do not see why we need discuss it further.” Quotations
followed from the Koran.
“We have not all your sweet nature, Nawab Bahadur, nor your
learning.”
“The Lieutenant-Governor may be my very good friend, but I give
him no trouble.—How do you do, Nawab Bahadur?—Quite well,
thank you, Sir Gilbert; how are you?—And all is over. But I can be a
thorn in Mr. Turton’s flesh, and if he asks me I accept the invitation.
I shall come in from Dilkusha specially, though I have to postpone
other business.”

“You will make yourself chip,” suddenly said a little black man.
There was a stir of disapproval. Who was this ill-bred upstart, that
he should criticize the leading Mohammedan landowner of the
district? Mahmoud Ali, though sharing his opinion, felt bound to
oppose it. “Mr. Ram Chand!” he said, swaying forward stiffly with his
hands on his hips.
“Mr. Mahmoud Ali!”
“Mr. Ram Chand, the Nawab Bahadur can decide what is cheap
without our valuation, I think.”
“I do not expect I shall make myself cheap,” said the Nawab
Bahadur to Mr. Ram Chand, speaking very pleasantly, for he was
aware that the man had been impolite and he desired to shield him
from the consequences. It had passed through his mind to reply, “I
expect I shall make myself cheap,” but he rejected this as the less
courteous alternative. “I do not see why we should make ourselves
cheap. I do not see why we should. The invitation is worded very
graciously.” Feeling that he could not further decrease the social gulf
between himself and his auditors, he sent his elegant grandson, who
was in attendance on him, to fetch his car. When it came, he
repeated all that he had said before, though at greater length,
ending up with “Till Tuesday, then, gentlemen all, when I hope we
may meet in the flower gardens of the club.”
This opinion carried great weight. The Nawab Bahadur was a big
proprietor and a philanthropist, a man of benevolence and decision.
His character among all the communities in the province stood high.
He was a straightforward enemy and a staunch friend, and his
hospitality was proverbial. “Give, do not lend; after death who will
thank you?” was his favourite remark. He held it a disgrace to die
rich. When such a man was prepared to motor twenty-five miles to
shake the Collector’s hand, the entertainment took another aspect.
For he was not like some eminent men, who give out that they will

come, and then fail at the last moment, leaving the small fry
floundering. If he said he would come, he would come, he would
never deceive his supporters. The gentlemen whom he had lectured
now urged one another to attend the party, although convinced at
heart that his advice was unsound.
He had spoken in the little room near the Courts where the
pleaders waited for clients; clients, waiting for pleaders, sat in the
dust outside. These had not received a card from Mr. Turton. And
there were circles even beyond these—people who wore nothing but
a loincloth, people who wore not even that, and spent their lives in
knocking two sticks together before a scarlet doll—humanity grading
and drifting beyond the educated vision, until no earthly invitation
can embrace it.
All invitations must proceed from heaven perhaps; perhaps it is
futile for men to initiate their own unity, they do but widen the gulfs
between them by the attempt. So at all events thought old Mr.
Graysford and young Mr. Sorley, the devoted missionaries who lived
out beyond the slaughterhouses, always travelled third on the
railways, and never came up to the club. In our Father’s house are
many mansions, they taught, and there alone will the incompatible
multitudes of mankind be welcomed and soothed. Not one shall be
turned away by the servants on that verandah, be he black or white,
not one shall be kept standing who approaches with a loving heart.
And why should the divine hospitality cease here? Consider, with all
reverence, the monkeys. May there not be a mansion for the
monkeys also? Old Mr. Graysford said No, but young Mr. Sorley, who
was advanced, said Yes; he saw no reason why monkeys should not
have their collateral share of bliss, and he had sympathetic
discussions about them with his Hindu friends. And the jackals?
Jackals were indeed less to Mr. Sorley’s mind, but he admitted that
the mercy of God, being infinite, may well embrace all mammals.
And the wasps? He became uneasy during the descent to wasps,
and was apt to change the conversation. And oranges, cactuses,
crystals and mud? and the bacteria inside Mr. Sorley? No, no, this is

going too far. We must exclude someone from our gathering, or we
shall be left with nothing.

CHAPTER V
The Bridge Party was not a success—at least it was not what Mrs.
Moore and Miss Quested were accustomed to consider a successful
party. They arrived early, since it was given in their honour, but most
of the Indian guests had arrived even earlier, and stood massed at
the farther side of the tennis lawns, doing nothing.
“It is only just five,” said Mrs. Turton. “My husband will be up from
his office in a moment and start the thing. I have no idea what we
have to do. It’s the first time we’ve ever given a party like this at the
club. Mr. Heaslop, when I’m dead and gone will you give parties like
this? It’s enough to make the old type of Burra Sahib turn in his
grave.”
Ronny laughed deferentially. “You wanted something not
picturesque and we’ve provided it,” he remarked to Miss Quested.
“What do you think of the Aryan Brother in a topi and spats?”
Neither she nor his mother answered. They were gazing rather
sadly over the tennis lawn. No, it was not picturesque; the East,
abandoning its secular magnificence, was descending into a valley
whose farther side no man can see.
“The great point to remember is that no one who’s here matters;
those who matter don’t come. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Turton?”
“Absolutely true,” said the great lady, leaning back. She was
“saving herself up,” as she called it—not for anything that would
happen that afternoon or even that week, but for some vague future
occasion when a high official might come along and tax her social

strength. Most of her public appearances were marked by this air of
reserve.
Assured of her approbation, Ronny continued: “The educated
Indians will be no good to us if there’s a row, it’s simply not worth
while conciliating them, that’s why they don’t matter. Most of the
people you see are seditious at heart, and the rest ’ld run squealing.
The cultivator—he’s another story. The Pathan—he’s a man if you
like. But these people—don’t imagine they’re India.” He pointed to
the dusky line beyond the court, and here and there it flashed a
pince-nez or shuffled a shoe, as if aware that he was despising it.
European costume had lighted like a leprosy. Few had yielded
entirely, but none were untouched. There was a silence when he had
finished speaking, on both sides of the court; at least, more ladies
joined the English group, but their words seemed to die as soon as
uttered. Some kites hovered overhead, impartial, over the kites
passed the mass of a vulture, and with an impartiality exceeding all,
the sky, not deeply coloured but translucent, poured light from its
whole circumference. It seemed unlikely that the series stopped
here. Beyond the sky must not there be something that overarches
all the skies, more impartial even than they? Beyond which again . .
.
They spoke of Cousin Kate.
They had tried to reproduce their own attitude to life upon the
stage, and to dress up as the middle-class English people they
actually were. Next year they would do Quality Street or The
Yeomen of the Guard. Save for this annual incursion, they left
literature alone. The men had no time for it, the women did nothing
that they could not share with the men. Their ignorance of the Arts
was notable, and they lost no opportunity of proclaiming it to one
another; it was the Public School attitude, flourishing more
vigorously than it can yet hope to do in England. If Indians were
shop, the Arts were bad form, and Ronny had repressed his mother
when she enquired after his viola; a viola was almost a demerit, and

certainly not the sort of instrument one mentioned in public. She
noticed now how tolerant and conventional his judgments had
become; when they had seen Cousin Kate in London together in the
past, he had scorned it; now he pretended that it was a good play,
in order to hurt nobody’s feelings. An “unkind notice” had appeared
in the local paper, “the sort of thing no white man could have
written,” as Mrs. Lesley said. The play was praised, to be sure, and
so were the stage management and the performance as a whole,
but the notice contained the following sentence: “Miss Derek,
though she charmingly looked her part, lacked the necessary
experience, and occasionally forgot her words.” This tiny breath of
genuine criticism had given deep offence, not indeed to Miss Derek,
who was as hard as nails, but to her friends. Miss Derek did not
belong to Chandrapore. She was stopping for a fortnight with the
McBrydes, the police people, and she had been so good as to fill up
a gap in the cast at the last moment. A nice impression of local
hospitality she would carry away with her.
“To work, Mary, to work,” cried the Collector, touching his wife on
the shoulder with a switch.
Mrs. Turton got up awkwardly. “What do you want me to do? Oh,
those purdah women! I never thought any would come. Oh dear!”
A little group of Indian ladies had been gathering in a third quarter
of the grounds, near a rustic summer-house in which the more timid
of them had already taken refuge. The rest stood with their backs to
the company and their faces pressed into a bank of shrubs. At a little
distance stood their male relatives, watching the venture. The sight
was significant: an island bared by the turning tide, and bound to
grow.
“I consider they ought to come over to me.”
“Come along, Mary, get it over.”

“I refuse to shake hands with any of the men, unless it has to be
the Nawab Bahadur.”
“Whom have we so far?” He glanced along the line. “H’m! h’m!
much as one expected. We know why he’s here, I think—over that
contract, and he wants to get the right side of me for Mohurram,
and he’s the astrologer who wants to dodge the municipal building
regulations, and he’s that Parsi, and he’s—Hullo! there he goes—
smash into our hollyhocks. Pulled the left rein when he meant the
right. All as usual.”
“They ought never to have been allowed to drive in; it’s so bad for
them,” said Mrs. Turton, who had at last begun her progress to the
summer-house, accompanied by Mrs. Moore, Miss Quested, and a
terrier. “Why they come at all I don’t know. They hate it as much as
we do. Talk to Mrs. McBryde. Her husband made her give purdah
parties until she struck.”
“This isn’t a purdah party,” corrected Miss Quested.
“Oh, really,” was the haughty rejoinder.
“Do kindly tell us who these ladies are,” asked Mrs. Moore.
“You’re superior to them, anyway. Don’t forget that. You’re
superior to everyone in India except one or two of the Ranis, and
they’re on an equality.”
Advancing, she shook hands with the group and said a few words
of welcome in Urdu. She had learnt the lingo, but only to speak to
her servants, so she knew none of the politer forms and of the verbs
only the imperative mood. As soon as her speech was over, she
enquired of her companions, “Is that what you wanted?”
“Please tell these ladies that I wish we could speak their language,
but we have only just come to their country.”

“Perhaps we speak yours a little,” one of the ladies said.
“Why, fancy, she understands!” said Mrs. Turton.
“Eastbourne, Piccadilly, High Park Corner,” said another of the
ladies.
“Oh yes, they’re English-speaking.”
“But now we can talk: how delightful!” cried Adela, her face
lighting up.
“She knows Paris also,” called one of the onlookers.
“They pass Paris on the way, no doubt,” said Mrs. Turton, as if she
was describing the movements of migratory birds. Her manner had
grown more distant since she had discovered that some of the group
was Westernized, and might apply her own standards to her.
“The shorter lady, she is my wife, she is Mrs. Bhattacharya,” the
onlooker explained. “The taller lady, she is my sister, she is Mrs.
Das.”
The shorter and the taller ladies both adjusted their saris, and
smiled. There was a curious uncertainty about their gestures, as if
they sought for a new formula which neither East nor West could
provide. When Mrs. Bhattacharya’s husband spoke, she turned away
from him, but she did not mind seeing the other men. Indeed all the
ladies were uncertain, cowering, recovering, giggling, making tiny
gestures of atonement or despair at all that was said, and alternately
fondling the terrier or shrinking from him. Miss Quested now had her
desired opportunity; friendly Indians were before her, and she tried
to make them talk, but she failed, she strove in vain against the
echoing walls of their civility. Whatever she said produced a murmur
of deprecation, varying into a murmur of concern when she dropped
her pocket-handkerchief. She tried doing nothing, to see what that
produced, and they too did nothing. Mrs. Moore was equally

unsuccessful. Mrs. Turton waited for them with a detached
expression; she had known what nonsense it all was from the first.
When they took their leave, Mrs. Moore had an impulse, and said
to Mrs. Bhattacharya, whose face she liked, “I wonder whether you
would allow us to call on you some day.”
“When?” she replied, inclining charmingly.
“Whenever is convenient.”
“All days are convenient.”
“Thursday . . .”
“Most certainly.”
“We shall enjoy it greatly, it would be a real pleasure. What about
the time?”
“All hours.”
“Tell us which you would prefer. We’re quite strangers to your
country; we don’t know when you have visitors,” said Miss Quested.
Mrs. Bhattacharya seemed not to know either. Her gesture implied
that she had known, since Thursdays began, that English ladies
would come to see her on one of them, and so always stayed in.
Everything pleased her, nothing surprised. She added, “We leave for
Calcutta to-day.”
“Oh, do you?” said Adela, not at first seeing the implication. Then
she cried, “Oh, but if you do we shall find you gone.”
Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute it. But her husband called from
the distance, “Yes, yes, you come to us Thursday.”
“But you’ll be in Calcutta.”

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