Again I should have to explain Simla, at the length of an essay at least, to justify our condemnation.

This difficulty confronts me everywhere.
I must ask you instead to imagine a small colony of superior--very superior--officials, of British origin and traditions, set on the top of a hill, years and miles away from literature, music, pictures, politics, existing like a harem on the gossip of the Viceroy's intentions, and depending for amusement on tennis and bumble-puppy, and then consider, you yourself, whether you are the sort of person to be unquestionably happy there.

If you see no reason to the contrary, pray do not go on.
There were times when Dora declared that she couldn't breathe for want of an atmosphere, and times when I looked round and groaned at the cheerful congratulatory aridity in every man's eye--men who had done things at Oxford in my own year, and come out like me to be mummified into a last state like this.

Thank Heaven, there was never any cheerful congratulation in my eye; one could always put there, when the thought inspired it, a saving spark of rank ingratitude instead.
It was as if we had the most desirable things--roses, cool airs, far snowy ranges--to build what we like with, and we built Simla--altitude, 7,000, population 2,500, headquarters of the Government of India during the summer months.

An ark it was, of course; an ark of refuge from the horrible heat that surged below, and I wondered as I climbed the steeps of Summer Hill in search of I.Armour's inaccessible address, whether he was to be the dove bearing beautiful testimony of a world coming nearer.
I rejected the simile, however, as over-sanguine; we had been too long abandoned on our Ararat..