gritty platform, with our hand luggage and bedding all of a heap, and with the whole length of the train to traverse to attain our new carriage.  Sabz Ali being curled up asleep in an “intermediate,” was all unwitting of this upheaval.  The officials were impatient, and so Jane and I were in a thoroughly unchristian frame of mind by the time we were stowed, hot and greatly fussed, into a stifling compartment, whose dust-begrimed windows long withstood all endeavours to open them.

We reached Lahore about noon, and, having some six hours to dispose of there, we spent them in calm contemplation, sitting on the verandah of Nedou’s Hotel.  It was really too hot to think of sight-seeing.

Thursday, October 19.—­Another night in the train brought us to Delhi at dawn, and we drove up to the execrable caravansary of Mr. Maiden.  I do not propose to write much about Delhi.  Every one who has been in India has visited the capital of the Moguls, whose wealth of splendid buildings would alone have rendered it a supreme attraction for the sight-seer, even had it not played the part it did in the Mutiny, and been memorable as the scene of the storming of the Kashmir Gate and the death of John Nicholson.

We, personally, carried away from Delhi an uncomfortable sense of disappointment.  It was very hot, and Jane fell a victim to the heat or something, and took to her bed in the comfortless hotel, while I prowled sadly about the baking streets, and tried to work up an enthusiasm which I did not feel.

As soon as Jane was fit, we joined forces with a young fellow-countryman and his sister, who were the only other English people in the hotel, and drove out to see the Kutab Minar.  On arrival we found a comfortable dak bungalow, and, having made an excellent breakfast, sallied forth to view the Kutab.  May I confess that I was again a little disappointed?  I do not really know exactly why, but the great tower, whose fluted shaft, dark red in the sunglow, shoots up some 270 feet into the air, did not appeal to me.  It is like no other column—­it is unique, marvellous,—­but it leaves me cold.

The splendid arch of the screen of the old temple, and the lovely columns of the Jain temple opposite, attracted me far more than the Kutab Minar.

Jane and young Buxton went off to see a native jump down a well fifty feet deep for four annas.  The performance sounded curious, but unpleasant.  The sightseers were much impressed!  Meanwhile, Miss Buxton and I discovered a very modern and exceedingly hideous little Hindu temple, painted in the most appalling manner—­altogether a gem of grotesqueness, and truly delightful and refreshing.

Tea in front of the dak bungalow, in a corner blazing with “gold mohurs” and rosy oleanders, while the driver and the syce harnessed the lean pair of horses, a final visit to the Kutab and the great arch, and we fared back over the eleven bumpy miles that lay between us and Delhi.