mickle, and that those two servants
of the Empire have been standing doing this for half an hour, and will
still have to go on for an hour at least in this very tiring Bombay heat
and crowd, and after a P. & O. voyage and landing! Their total effort
for all the ceremonies of the day before, and years to come, rather
appalled me to think of. Bravo! Public Servants, who work for honour and
the Empire; how will the Socialist fill your places when he is on top.
As before, gorgeously apparelled scarlet turbaned waiters gave us
champagne, and native princes hemmed the tables for it, and chocolates.
Here is a little picture of what I remember--you may suppose some of the
figures represent our party after getting over the bow and into the
straight for the cup. We then wandered about, and admired the uniforms
of the governor's body guard, tall native soldiers standing round about
the passages with huge turbans and beards, blue tunics, white breeches,
and tall black boots, all straight and stiff as their lances, and
barring their roving black eyes, as motionless. From a verandah opposite
the Viceroy, we watched the new comers making their bows; ladies,
soldiers, sailors, civilians, single or married passed, and never were
two bows or curtseys absolutely alike, nor were two walks, but the
Viceroy's bow and Lady Minto's pleasant smile and half look of
recognition were equally cordial to all.

[Illustration: A Reception in Government House, Bombay.]

Our departure--hours to wait again for our carriage. H. stood-by in
front, waiting for our number to be shouted; fortune drove me wandering
up the drive with a Government House cheroot, too fagged to speak to
people, and lo and behold! our carriage driver and syce, asleep in a
by-way. So I brought it along and sung out 658! 658! and away we all got
hours sooner than might have been.

The road is full of carriages, gharries, and dog carts.
Occupants--officers, sailors, and soldiers in batches, alone or with
ladies; white shirts and skirts gleam green in the moonlight--the
road--dusty, stuffy, and the pace go-as-you-please; past a lamplit
bungalow in the shadows of trees and out into the open again and
moonlight and dust--past a motor by the roadside, its owner, in court
dress, sweating at its works--dust, moonlight, and black silk--a
Whistler by Jove! Now we pass a slow going gharry, and now two young
hatless soldiers in a high dog cart pass us under the trees, downhill at
a canter, a