The Real Lady Hilda by B.M. Croker

After waiting twenty minutes in semidarkness (poor people must exercise patience), the lamp-welcome herald of tea-was carried in by Mrs. Gabb, whose expressive countenance distinctly warned off either questions or expostulations. She proceeded to dash down the blinds, bang the shutters, coal-scuttle, fire-irons, and finally the door.

By lamplight our little apartment did not look nearly so mean and shabby as by day. Emma had marvelous taste in an airy, sketchy style-a taste which, she assured me, was common to many Anglo-Indian ladies, who were frequently compelled to make a very little furniture go a long way, and who were unsurpassed in the art of makeshifts. Some grasses and winter berries filled several bowls and vases; a few pretty Eastern ornaments were scattered about; an Indian drapery was thrown carelessly over the sofa. A smart paper lamp-shade and two or three silk cushions brightened up the room, and last, not least, a considerable gallery of photographs. They caught the eye on all sides, and had a truly imposing effect. Emma had been twelve years in the East, and had accumulated many portraits. Here was a smart cavalry man-an A.D.C.; there an imposing general officer covered with orders; a Ghoorka, a hill beauty, a polo pony, an Indian picnic, a wedding group, a lady in a rickshaw, holding over herself a coquettish Japanese umbrella. They made indeed a goodly show, and as Emma remarked, "putting sentiment altogether on one side, were easily carried about, and went a long way towards furnishing a shabby sitting-room." Whilst the tea was drawing, I tidied up, swept the hearth, straightened the lamp-shade, collected and put away straggling books and papers. Meanwhile, Emma drew forth a pack of somewhat _passée_ cards, cleared a space on the table, and proceeded to deal them out in four neat rows.