"How's the plague at Bombay now?" an inquisitive passenger inquired of
the Captain at dinner our last night out. "Getting any better?"
Lady Meadowcroft's thumb dived between her fingers again. "What! is
there plague in Bombay?" she asked, innocently, in her nervous fashion.
"Plague in Bombay!" the Captain burst out, his burly voice resounding
down the saloon. "Why, bless your soul, ma'am, where else would you
expect it? Plague in Bombay! It's been there these five years. Better?
Not quite. Going ahead like mad. They're dying by thousands."
"A microbe, I believe, Dr. Boyell," the inquisitive passenger observed
deferentially, with due respect for medical science.
"Yes," the ship's doctor answered, helping himself to an olive. "Forty
million microbes to each square inch of the Bombay atmosphere."
"And we are going to Bombay!" Lady Meadowcroft exclaimed, aghast.
"You must have known there was plague there, my dear," Sir Ivor put in,
soothingly, with a deprecating glance. "It's been in all the papers. But
only the natives get it."
The thumb uncovered itself a little. "Oh, only the natives!" Lady
Meadowcroft echoed, relieved; as if a few thousand Hindus more or less
would hardly be missed among the blessings of British rule in India.
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