FUTILE FOPPERIES 75 



iceberg. The soup was a jelly. The vegetables 

 were iced. Somehow it was not a success. It 

 was partaken of in weary silence. Convention is 

 everything, even in such heat, and cold soup does 

 not look appetising. 



"'Oh man of many clothes!'" I say to the 

 Burra Sahib. 



"'Futile Fopperies, unnecessary wraps,'" I 

 shout at the Ancient, as they both appear in the 

 same identical kind of high glazed collar, and with 

 sleeves to their coats. The temperature is such 

 that even woad would feel superfluous. How 

 sensible it is of these natives to garb themselves in 

 loose white muslin ! I implore the Burra Sahib 

 and the C. S. to allow me to take out the sleeves 

 of at least their undergarments, even if they retain 

 those of their coats. To see them wearing double 

 pairs of sleeves when I can endure none, fills me 

 with pity for them. To rest the tips of one's fingers 

 on a black cloth arm in June, is as unpleasant as 

 touching a "burr." How much more soothing 

 would be the look and feel of soft oriental satin, 

 say black if they preferred it, lined with the thinnest 

 of silks, and instead of the stiff starched collar and 



