* *

Our three days in Bombay were uneventful; we merely waited to get rid of
the roll of the ship, which continued to haunt us for hours after we
landed--the floor of our bedrooms having acquired an ugly trick of
rising in long undulations, as if Bombay were suffering from chronic
earthquake. We made the acquaintance of His Honour the Acting Governor,
and His Honour's consort. We were also introduced to Mrs. Balmossie, the
lady who was to chaperon us to Moozuffernuggar. Her husband was a
soldierly Scotchman from Forfarshire, but she herself was English--a
flighty little body with a perpetual giggle. She giggled so much over
the idea of the Maharajah's inviting us to his palace that I wondered
why on earth she accepted his invitation. At this she seemed surprised.
'Why, it's one of the jolliest places in Rajputana,' she answered, with
a bland Simla smile; '_so_ picturesque--he, he, he--and _so_ delightful.
Simpkin flows like water-- Simpkin's baboo English for champagne, you
know--he, he, he; and though of course the Maharajah's only a native
like the rest of them--he, he, he--still, he's been educated at Oxford,
and has mixed with Europeans, and he knows how to make one--he, he,
he--well, thoroughly comfortable.'

'But what shall we eat?' I asked. 'Rice, ghee, and chupatties?'

'Oh dear no--he, he, he--Europe food, every bit of it. Foie gras, and
York ham, and wine _ad lib_. His hospitality's massive. If it weren't
for that, of course, one wouldn't dream of going there. But Archie hopes
some day to be made Resident, don't you know; and it will do him no
harm--he, he, he--with the Foreign Office, to have cultivated friendly
relations beforehand with His Highness of Moozuffernuggar. These
natives--he, he, he--so absurdly sensitive!'

For myself, the Maharajah interested me, and I rather liked him.
Besides, he was Harold's friend, and that was in itself sufficient
recommendation. So I determined to push straight into the heart of
native India first, and only afterwards to do the regulation tourist
round of Agra and Delhi, the Taj and the mosques, Benares and Allahabad,
leaving the English and Calcutta for the tail-end of my journey. It was
better journalism; as I thought that thought, I began to fear that Mr.
Elworthy was right after all, and that I was a born journalist.

On the day fixed for our leaving Bombay, whom should I meet but Lord
Southminster--with the Maharajah--at the railway station!

He loun