ButthatistheamusingpartoftheyearTherearesixothermonthswhennoneevercometocall，andthethermometerwalksinchbyinchuptothetopoftheglass，andtheofficeisdarkenedtojustabovereading-light，andthepress-machinesarered-hottotouch，andnobodywritesanythingbutaccountsofamusementsintheHill-stationsorobituarynoticesThenthetelephonebecomesatinklingterror，becauseittellsyouofthesuddendeathsofmenandwomenthatyouknewintimately，andthepricklyheatcoversyouwithagarment，andyousitdownandwrite：“AslightincreaseofsicknessisreportedfromtheKhudaJantaKhanDistrictTheoutbreakispurelysporadicinitsnature，and，thankstotheenergeticeffortsoftheDistrictauthorities，isnowalmostatanendItis，however，withdeepregretwerecordthedeath。”etc。
Thenthesicknessreallybreaksout，andthelessrecordingandreportingthebetterforthepeaceofthesubscribersButtheEmpiresandtheKingscontinuetodivertthemselvesasselfishlyasbefore，andtheForemanthinksthatadailypaperreallyoughttocomeoutonceintwenty-fourhours，andallthepeopleattheHill-
stationsinthemiddleoftheiramusementssay，“Goodgracious！
whycan’tthepaperbesparkling？I’msurethere’splentygoingonuphere。”
Thatisthedarkhalfofthemoon，and，astheadvertisementssay，“mustbeexperiencedtobeappreciated。”