s, and shine through the
flags that hang without movement, and light up ropes of flowers and
ribands with gold inscriptions of welcome, that stretch from tree to
tree across the road. You read on them in golden letters, "Tell papa how
happy we are under British Rule," and on the walls, sitting or lying at
length, and in the trees are bronze-coloured natives in white clothes,
or in the buff, silently watching the procession of carriages, and they
do look as contented as can be; and so would we be too, if we had to get
into their evening undress instead of hard shirts and broad cloth on
such a damp, hot night. It is November and ought to be cool, but this
year everyone says it is just October as regards temperature and
moisture, and October, they say, is the beastliest month in the twelve.
The drive of four or five miles takes over an hour, and looking south we
see the lights shining across the bay from where we started. We climb
slowly up Malabar Hill in the dusky shade of the heavy foliage and come
to a stop amongst crowds of other carriages opposite Government House.

I'd like to stop and paint this scene, it would suit the stage--the
marquee on the right, pale moonlight on its ridge, and warm light and
colour showing through its entrance as ladies go in to put off their
cloaks; its guy ropes are fast to branches and air roots of a banyan
tree; and to the left there is another graceful tree, with wandering
branches, hung with many red and yellow paper lamps, the branches like
copper in the light and in shadow black against the dark blue sky. In
front is part of Government House, dim white with trellis work and
creepers round a classic verandah, and lamplight coming through the open
jalousies. Leading up to the verandah are wide steps in shadow; and on
these, a light catching now and then on a jewel or scabbard, are groups
of Indian Princes. Beside us on the lawn are people in all kinds of
dresses, soldiers in uniform and the gold dull in the shadows, ladies in
fairy-coloured ball dresses, and Parsi men in frock-coats and shiny
black hats, their women in most delicate veils over European dresses.
The figures move quietly and speak softly, and the air is full of the
rattle of crickets or cicadas and a pleasant scent of night flowers, and
cheroot smoke, with a whiff of old ocean.

We wait and chat outside with acquaintances, and some ladies practise
curtseys whilst the natives are being received--the coloured man first,