As we swept on, the lake widened.  On the left a network of water lanes threaded the maze of low-growing brushwood and whispering reeds, and round us extended the half-submerged patches of soil which form the celebrated “floating gardens” of the lake.  From any point of view except the utilitarian, these gardens are a fraud.  A combination of matted and decaying water-plants, mud, and young cabbages kept in place by rows and thickets of willow scrub, is curious, but not lovely; and our eyes turned away to where Hari Parbat raised his crown of crumbling forts above the native city, or to the mysterious ruins of Peri Mahal, clinging like a swallow’s nest to the shelving slopes above Gupkar.

  “Still onward; and the clear canal
  Is rounded to as clear a lake;”

and we emerged from the willow-fringed water lanes, and saw across the wider shield of glistering water the white cube of the Nishat Bagh Pavilion—­the Garden of Joy, made for Jehangir the Mogul—­standing by the water’s edge, and at its foot a great throng and clutter of boats, amidst whose snaky prows we pushed our way and landed, something stiff after sitting for two hours in a cramped shikara.

Other guests—­some thirty in all—­were arriving, either like us by boat, or by carriage via Gupkar, and we strolled in groups up the sloping gardens, which still show, in their wild and unrestrained beauty, the loving touch of the long-vanished hand of the Mogul.

Down seven wide grassy terraces a series of fountains splashed and twinkled in the sun.  Broad chenars, just beginning to break into leaf, gave promise of ample shade against the day when the blaze should become overpowering.  So far so good, but the grass that bordered the path was not the sweet green turf of an English lawn, and the way was edged by big earthen pots, into which were hastily stuck wisps of iris blooms and Persian lilac.  The topmost terrace widened out, enclosing a large basin of clear water, in the middle of which played a fountain.  On one side was raised a marquee, revealing welcome preparations for lunch.  On the opposite side of the fountain a profusion of chairs, shaded by a great awning, stood expectantly facing a bandstand.  Here we were welcomed by His Highness, a somewhat small man with exceedingly neat legs and an enormous white pugaree, in his customary gracious manner.

It was now half-past two, and we had breakfasted early, so that a move towards the luncheon tent was most welcome.  Finding the fair lady whom I was detailed to personally conduct, and the ticketed place where I was to sit, I prepared to make a Gargantuan meal.  Was it not almost on this very spot that

  “The board was spread with fruit and wine,
  With grapes of gold, like those that shine
  On Casbin’s hills;—­pomegranates full
    Of melting sweetness, and the pears
  And sunniest apples that Cabul
    In all its thousand gardens bears.