ing Maharajah, or Rana, or Nawab
would dream of living in a Palace devoid of either.

Rajah Govind Singh and his four companions stood together by a
marble-topped table, laughing and whispering over a book filled with
photographs of music-hall celebrities, while beside it a spurious
album, whose heart was a musical box, tinkled an age-old air from "Les
Cloches" with maddening precision. At the far end of the room a native
conjurer had established himself, and was already performing
indefatigably for the benefit of no one in particular.

The group by the table showed a medley of colour quite in keeping with
the flash and glitter of the whole. Over spotless shirts and trousers
the boys wore brilliant silk _chogas_[1] cunningly patterned with gold
wire, and surmounted by turbans of palest primrose, orange, and green.
But Govind Singh, by divine right of Rajahdom, eclipsed the rest.
Beneath his scarlet coat gleamed a waistcoat of woven gold, and the
jewelled buckle of his Rajput _chuprass_.[2] Three strings of pearls
formed a close collar at his throat, and in front of his sea-green
turban a heron's plume sprang from a cluster of brilliants. The faces
of all were no darker than ripe wheat; for your high-caste hill-man
never takes colour, like his brother of the plains.

They had long since eaten their own simple dinner, in the scantiest
clothing, and in a solemn silence, squatting on a bare mud floor. For
to the Hindu a meal is a sacred ceremony, and the Sahib's idiosyncrasy
for making merry over his food can only be accepted as part and parcel
of his bewildering lack of sense and dignity in regard to the conduct
of life.

During a long minority this boy had been zealously inoculated with
Western knowledge and Western points of view; and with the deceptive
pliancy of the Oriental he had smilingly submitted to the process. But
deep down in the unplumbed heart of him he waited for the good day when
he would be rid of these well-meaning interlopers,--tireless as their
own fire-carriages,--who troubled the still waters of life and talked
so vigorously about nothing in particular; when he would be free to
forget cricket and polo and futile efforts to cleanse the State from
intrigue; free to sit down in peace and grow fat, unhindered by the
senseless machinations of the outer world.

And in the heart of Govind Singh you have a fair epitome of the great
heart of India herself: aloof, long-suffering, illogical to a degre