It was disconcerting somehow to find that our dove had perched, even temporarily, in Amy Villa.

Nor was it soothing to discover that the small white object stuck in the corner of the board was Mr.Ingersoll Armour's card.
In Simla we do not stick our cards about in that way at the mercy of the wind and the weather; we paint our names neatly under the names of our houses with 'I.C.S.' for Indian Civil Service, or 'P.W.D.' for Public Works Department, or whatever designation we are entitled to immediately after, so that there can be no mistake.

This strikes newcomers sometimes as a little professional, especially when a hand accompanies, pointing; but it is the only possible way where there are no streets and no numbers, but where houses are dropped about a hilltop as if they had fallen from a pepper-pot.

In sticking his card out like that Mr.Armour seemed to imagine himself au quatrieme or au cinquieme somewhere on the south side of the Seine; it betrayed rather a ridiculous lack of conformity.

He was high enough up, however, to give any illusion; I had to stop to find the wind to announce myself.