No More Learning

Once upon a time there was a man and his Wife and a Tertium Quid.

All three were unwise, but the Wife was the unwisest. The Man should
have looked after his Wife, who should have avoided the Tertium Quid,
who, again, should have married a wife of his own, after clean and
open flirtations, to which nobody can possibly object, round Jakko or
Observatory Hill. When you see a young man with his pony in a white
lather, and his hat on the back of his head flying down-hill at fifteen
miles an hour to meet a girl who will be properly surprised to meet
him, you naturally approve of that young man, and wish him Staff
Appointments, and take an interest in his welfare, and, as the proper
time comes, give them sugar-tongs or side-saddles, according to your
means and generosity.

The Tertium Quid flew down-hill on horseback, but it was to meet the
Man's Wife; and when he flew up-hill it was for the same end. The Man
was in the Plains, earning money for his Wife to spend on dresses and
four-hundred-rupee bracelets, and inexpensive luxuries of that kind. He
worked very hard, and sent her a letter or a post-card daily. She also
wrote to him daily, and said that she was longing for him to come up to
Simla. The Tertium Quid used to lean over her shoulder and laugh as she
wrote the notes. Then the two would ride to the Post Office together.

Now, Simla is a strange place and its customs are peculiar; nor is
any man who has not spent at least ten seasons there qualified to pass
judgment on circumstantial evidence, which is the most untrustworthy in
the Courts. For these reasons, and for others which need not appear,
I decline to state positively whether there was anything irretrievably
wrong in the relations between the Man's Wife and the Tertium Quid. If
there was, and hereon you must form your own opinion, it was the Man's
Wife's fault. She was kittenish in her manners, wearing generally an
air of soft and fluffy innocence. But she was deadly learned and
evil-instructed; and, now and again, when the mask dropped, men saw
this, shuddered and almost drew back.
Men are occasionally particular,
and the least particular men are always the most exacting.

Simla is eccentric in its fashion of tearing friendships. Certain
attachments which have set and crystallized through half a dozen seasons
acquire almost the sanctity of the marriage bond, and are revered as
such. Again, certain attachments equally old, and, to all appearance,
equally venerable, never seem to win any recognized official status;
while a chance-sprung acquaintance now two months born, steps into the
place which by right belongs to the senior. There is no law reducible to
print which regulates these affairs.

Some people have a gift which secures them infinite toleration, and
others have not. The Man's Wife had not. If she looked over the garden
wall, for instance, women taxed her with stealing their husbands. She
complained pathetically that she was not allowed to choose her own
friends. When she put up her big white muff to her lips, and gazed over
it and under her eyebrows at you as she said this thing, you felt
that she had been infamously misjudged, and that all the other women's
instincts were all wrong; which was absurd. She was not allowed to own
the Tertium Quid in peace; and was so strangely constructed that she
would not have enjoyed peace had she been so permitted. She preferred
some semblance of intrigue to cloak even her most commonplace actions.

After two months of riding, first round Jakko, then Elysium, then Summer
Hill, then Observatory Hill, then under Jutogh, and lastly up and down
the Cart Road as far as the Tara Devi gap in the dusk, she said to the
Tertium Quid, "Frank, people say we are too much together, and people
are so horrid. "

The Tertium Quid pulled his moustache, and replied that horrid people
were unworthy of the consideration of nice people.

"But they have done more than talk--they have written--written to my
hubby--I'm sure of it," said the Man's Wife, and she pulled a letter
from her husband out of her saddle-pocket and gave it to the Tertium
Quid.

It was an honest letter, written by an honest man, then stewing in the
Plains on two hundred rupees a month (for he allowed his wife eight
hundred and fifty), and in a silk banian and cotton trousers.