CHAPTER 2.III.
A dog of no sort of caste stood in the veranda and barked at me offensively.

I picked up a stone, and he vanished like the dog of a dream into the house.

It was such a small house that it wasn't on the municipal map at all: it looked as if someone had built it for amusement with anything that was lying about.

Nevertheless, it had a name, it was called Amy Villa, freshly painted in white letters on a shiny black board, and nailed against the nearest tree in the orthodox Simla fashion.

It looked as if the owner of the place had named it as a duty towards his tenant, the board was so new, and in that case the reflection presented itself that the tenant might have cooperated to call it something else.