Even in December there is summer heat at noon, and one wears the white gowns of the tropics at that high social hour in Calcutta; for one writes his name in the visitors' book at Government House, all formal calls are made, and letters of introduction are presented between twelve and two o'clock; and on Sundays, after church, every drawing-room hums with visitors' chat. The solid two-o'clock tiffin, following the heavy ten-o'clock breakfast, is so soon succeeded by the four-o'clock tea and the eight-o'clock dinner, that it is a surprise that any one survives the constant feasting which fills Anglo-Indian life. Little can be urged against a climate that permits such Gargantuan feats. The London menu goes with the British drum-beat round the world, and the beef and beer and cheese, the boiled potato, the cauliflower, and orange marmalade are fixed and omnipresent. More continuous than the imperial drum-beat is the sound of the soda-water bottle, on which, with the quinine sulphate, British rule rests. A chill and piercing dampness succeeds sunset, and often at night dense fogs shroud lamp-posts and landmarks until street travel is at a standstill. The modern Calcutta houses have fireplaces where a few lumps of coal diffuse a cheerful dryness, but in the older mansions one is bidden quite seriously to sit nearer the lamp and enjoy its benign radiation.
The Viceroy comes down from Simla in November, and goes on a provincial tour, reaching Calcutta before Christmas, when tents for extra guests decorate the lawns of Government House, of the clubs and great residences; and the empire revolves within the
