ople I met, in the places I saw, in everything I told you about; and
when I was jocose, you pretended to be amused. Ah, well! Be cheerful,
sir, our revels now are ended!

And so I am going home, home to my own bleak kindly land, "place of
all weathers that end in rain." I am going home to my own people
(I think I see Peter jigging up and down in expectation before my
trunks); and I am going to you. And the queer thing is, I can't feel
glad, I am so home-sick for India. All my horror of bombs and sudden
death has gone, and memory (as someone says) is making magic carpets
under my feet, so that I am back again in the white, hot sunlight,
under the dusty palm-trees, hearing the creak of the wagons, as the
patient oxen toil on the long straight roads, and the songs of the
coolies returning home at even, I see the country lying vague in the
clammy morning mist, and the great broad Ganges glimmering wanly; and
again it is a wonderful clear night of stars. I know that my own land
is the best land, that the fat babu with his carefully oiled and
parted hair and his too-apparent sock-suspenders can't be mentioned in
the same breath as the Britisher; that our daffodils and primroses
are sweeter far than the heavy-scented blossoms of the East; that the
"brain-fever" bird of India is a wretched substitute for the lark and
the thrush and others of "God's jocund little fowls"; that Abana and
Pharpar and other rivers of Damascus are better than this Jordan--all
this, I say, I know; but to-night I don't believe it.

India has thrown golden dust in my eyes, and I am seeing things all
wrong. We have anchored for the night.... I am watching the misty
green blur, which is all that is left to me of India, grow more and
more indistinct as darkness falls. Soon it will be night.

G., who has been absolutely silent for more than an hour, sat up
suddenly just now, and took my hand.

"Olivia," she said. "It's a nice place, England." Her tone was the
tone of one seeking reassurance.

"It is," I said dolefully. "_Very_."

"And it really doesn't rain such a great deal,"

"No."

"Anyway, it's home, and India isn't, though India _has_ been jolly."
She sighed.

Then, "I shall enjoy a slice of good roast beef," said G.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Olivia in India, by O. Douglas

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVIA IN INDIA ***

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