I could not but admire the perfect calm and caution with which he was conducting an affair involving millions of money, a possible indictment for high treason, and the key-note of the Afghan question, while I knew that his whole soul was absorbed in the contemplation of a beautiful picture ever before him, sleeping or waking.  Whatever I might think of his bargaining for the possession of Shere Ali, he had a great, even untiring, intellect.  He had the elements of a leader of men, and I fondly hoped he might be a ruler some day.

The bungalow in which the Maharajah of Baithopoor had taken up his residence during his visit was very much like all the rest of the houses I saw in Simla.  The verandah, however, was crowded with servants and sowars in gorgeous but rather tawdry liveries, not all of them as clean as they should have been.  Horses with elaborate high saddles and embroidered trappings rather the worse for wear were being led up and down the walk.  As we neared the door there was a strong smell of rosewater and native perfumes and hookah tobacco—­the indescribable odour of Eastern high life.  There was also a general air of wasteful and tawdry dowdiness, if I may coin such a word, which one constantly sees in the retinues of native princes and rich native merchants, ill contrasting with the great intrinsic value of some of the ornaments worn by the chief officers of the train.

Isaacs spoke a few words in a low voice to the jemadar at the door, and we were admitted into a small room in the side of the house, opening, as all rooms do in India, on to the verandah.  There were low wooden charpoys around the walls, and we sat down, waiting till the maharajah should be advised of our arrival.  Very soon a jemadar came in and informed us that “if the sahib log, who were the protectors of the poor, would deign to be led by him,” we should be shown into the royal presence.  So we rose and followed the obsequious official into another apartment.

The room where the maharajah awaited us was even smaller than the one into which we had been first shown.  It was on the back of the house, and only half lighted by the few rays of afternoon sun that struggled through the dense foliage outside.  I suppose this apartment had been chosen as the scene of the interview on account of its seclusion.  Outside the window, which was closed, a sowar paced slowly up and down to keep away any curious listeners.  A heavy curtain hung before the door through which we had entered.  I thought that on the whole the place seemed pretty safe.

The old maharajah sat cross-legged upon a great pile of dark-red cushions, his slippers by his side, and a huge hookah before him.  He wore a plain white pugree with a large jewel set on one side, and his body was swathed and wrapped in dark thick stuffs, as if he felt keenly the cold autumn air.  His face was long, of an ashy yellowish colour, and an immense white moustache hung curling down over his