This is how we clothe ourselves in our Indian empire. 0ur smooth andcomfortable khakee suits, our ample pyjamas, the cool black jacketsin which we dine, in this way are they brought about. But you mustnot allow yourself to think of the Dirzee simply as an agency forproducing clothes. Life is not made up of such simplicities. Theraison d'etre of that mango tree lies without doubt in the chalice ofnectar, called "mango fool," with which Domingo appeases me when heguesses that his enormities have gone beyond the limits even of myendurance; but I look at that thirty-seven candidates for the place ofthe chupprassee who went on leave yesterday have encamped under itsshade, that they may watch for my face in the verandah. Thetrespassing goat also has browsed on its leaves, and from the shelterof its branches the Magpie Robin pours that stream of song which,just before the dawning of the day, in the cloudy border land betweensleeping and waking flows over my soul. But I shall never reallyknow the place that tree has filled in my life, unless someone cutsit down and gives me a full view, from my easy chair, of the dirtybrick-burners' hut, with the poisonous film of yellow smoke playingover the kiln, and the family of pariah puppies far below, sporting withthe sun-dried remains of a fowl, which deceased in my yard and waspurloined by their gaunt mother. Now let imagination blot out theDirzee. Remove him from the verandah. Take up his carpet and sweepaway the litter. What a strange void there is in the place!Eliminate him from a lady's day. Let nine o'clock strike, but bringno stealthy footstep to the door, no muffled voice making respectfulapplication for his Kam. From nine to ten breakfast will fill thebreach, and you may allow another hour for the butler's account andthe godown; but there is still a yawning chasm of at least two hoursbetween eleven and tiffin. I cannot bridge it. Imagination strikeswork. The joyful sound of the Borah's voice brings promise ofrelief; but no! for what interest can there be in the Borah if youhave no Dirzee? In the spirit of fair play, however, I must mentionthat my wife does not endorse all this. 0n the contrary, she tellsme (she has a terse way of speaking) that it is "rank bosh." Shedeclares that the Dirzee is the bane of her life, that he is worsethan a fly, that she cannot sit down to the piano for five minutesbut he comes buzzing round for black thread, or black thread, ormother-o-pearl buttons, or hooks and eyes, that every night for thelast month he has watched her getting ready for to drive, and just asher foot was on the carriage step, has reminded her, with a cough,that his work was finished and he had nothing to do. If she couldonly do without him, she would send him about his business and be thehappiest woman in the world, for she could devote the whole day tomusic and painting and the improvement of her mind. 0f course Iassent. That is a somewhat commendable way of thinking about the matter.But, as an amateur philosopher, I warn you never to let yourself getunder practical bondage to such notions. I tell you when you betakeyourself to music or painting, carpentry or gardening, as a means ofgetting through the day, you are sapping your mental constitution andshortening your life: unless you are sustained by more than ordinarylittleness of mind you will never look at threescore and ten. All thesethings are good in proportion as you have difficulty in finding timefor them. When you have to rise early in the afternoon and work hardto make a little leisure for your favourite hobby, then you aregetting its blessing. Now, the Dirzee is not a means of killingtime. 0n the contrary, I look at that he compels his mistress to takethought how she may save time alive, if she wishes to get anythingdone. He hurries the day along and scatters its hours, so that ennuicannot find an empty minute to lurk in. I do not deny that he is theoccasion of a few provocations, and the simile of the fly is just;but are not provocations an element in the interest of every pursuit,the pepper which flavours all pleasant occupation? I collectbutterflies, and my friends think I am a man to be envied because Ihave such a taste. Do they suppose a butterfly catcher has noprovocations? Was it seventeen or seventy times (I forget) in onepage that I laid down my pen, put off my spectacles and caught up mynet to rush after that brute of a Papilio polymnestor, who just cameto the duranta flowers to flout me and skip over the wall into thenext garden? And does anyone but a butterfly hunter know how itfeels to open your cabinet drawers just a few hours after the antshave got the very recents that the camphor is done? Does anyone but anentomologist know the grub of Dermestes intolerabilis? Why should acollection of butterflies be called an object of perennial interestand delight, and the Dirzee an unmitigated provocation? They areboth of one family. Nothing is unmitigated in this world.