We left the Calcutta we knew—­the European shops, the big, cool houses, the Maidan—­and drove through native streets, airless, treeless, drab-coloured places, until we despaired of ever reaching anywhere.  When at last our man did stop, we found Mrs. Gardner’s cool, English-looking drawing-room a welcome refuge from the glare and the dust; and she was kindness itself.  She made a delightful cicerone, for she has a keen sense of humour and a wide knowledge of native life.

We went first to see the girls’ school—­a quaint sight.  All the funny little women with their hair well oiled and plastered down, with iron bangles on their wrists to show that they were married, wrapped in their saris, so demurely chanting their lessons!  When we went in they all stood up and, touching their foreheads, said in a queer sing-song drawl, “Salaam, Mees Sahib, salaam!” The teachers were native Bible-women.  The schoolrooms opened on to a court with a well like a village pump in the middle.  One small girl was brought out to tell us the story of the Prodigal Son in Bengali, which she did at great length with dramatic gestures; but our attention was somewhat diverted from her by a small boy who ran in from the street, hot and dusty, sluiced himself unconcernedly all over at the pump, and raced out again dripping.  It did look so inviting.

When we left the school Mrs. Gardner said she would take us to see some purdah nashin women—­that is, women who never go out with their faces uncovered, and who never see any men but their own husbands.

I don’t quite know what we expected to see—­something very Oriental and luxurious anyhow; marble halls and women with veils and scarlet satin trousers dotted about on cushions—­and the reality was disappointing.  No marble halls, no divans and richly carved tables, no hookahs and languid odours of rich perfumes, but a room with cheap modern furniture, china ornaments, and a round table in the middle of the floor, for all the world like the best parlour of the working classes.  Two women lived there with their husbands and families, and they came in and looked G. and me all over, fingered our dresses, examined our hats, and then asked why we weren’t married!  I could see they didn’t like the look of us at all.  They said we were like the dolls their little girls got at the fete, and produced two glassy-eyed atrocities with flaxen hair and vivid pink cheeks, and asked if we saw the resemblance.  We didn’t.  They told Mrs. Gardner—­who has been many years in India, and looks it—­that they thought she was much nicer-looking than we were, her face was all one colour! (They spoke, of course, in Bengali, but Mrs. Gardner translated.) Poor women! what a pitifully dull life is theirs!  G. was disappointed to hear they hadn’t become Christians.  She had an idea that the Missionary had only to appear with the Gospel story and the deed was done.  I’m afraid it isn’t as easy as that by a long way.