I'm thinking of Mrs. Cockley.
The woman's an absolute wreck.
DOONE. Exactly. Because she stays down here. The only way to keep her
fit would be to send her to the Hills for eight months--and the same
with any woman. I fancy I see myself taking a wife on those terms.
MACKESY. With the rupee at one and sixpence. The little Doones would
be little Dehra Doones, with a fine Mussoorie _chi-chi_ anent to bring
home for the holidays.
CURTISS. And a pair of be-ewtiful _sambhur_-horns for Doone to wear,
free of expense, presented by---
DOONE. Yes, it's an enchanting prospect. By the way, the rupee hasn't
done falling yet. The time will come when we shall think ourselves
lucky if we only lose half our pay.
CURTISS. Surely a third's loss enough. Who gains by the arrangement?
That's what I want to know.
BLAYNE. The Silver Question! I'm going to bed if you begin squabbling.
Thank Goodness, here's Anthony--looking like a ghost.
_Enter_ ANTHONY, _Indian Medical Staff, very white and tired._
ANTHONY. 'Evening, Blayne. It's raining in sheets. _Whiskey-peg, lao,
Khitmatgar._ The roads are something ghastly.
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