a native was visible; the whole world seemed asleep in the heat.  A pile of trunks lay on the platform addressed to somewhere in Devonshire and labelled Not wanted on the Voyage.  Some happy people were going home.  A far cry it seemed from this dusty land to green Devonshire.  I sat on the largest trunk and thought about it.  Two o’clock, three, four—­the hours went past.  I felt myself becoming exactly like a native, sitting with my hands folded, looking straight before me.  If I hadn’t been so anxious I shouldn’t have minded the waiting at all.  Now and again I refreshed myself with a peep at the babu, just to assure myself that I wasn’t the only person left alive in the world.

About five o’clock Boggley and his bicycle strolled into the station.  I had meant to be frightfully cross with him when he appeared—­that is to say, if he weren’t wounded or disabled in any way—­but somehow I never can be very cross when I see him, the way he wrinkles up his short-sighted eyes is so disarming.

He had absolutely no excuse except that he had run across old friends, and they had persuaded him to stay to lunch, and then they had got talking, and so on and so on.  He was very repentant, but inclined to laugh.  I expect really he had forgotten for the time he had a sister.  He confessed he hadn’t mentioned my existence till he was leaving, and then, he said, “They did seem rather surprised.”  I should think so indeed!

Our home mail was waiting us at Manpur and another “Calcutta” dinner.  Your letter, my faithful friend, was more than usually charming and kind—­a balm to my lacerated feelings!  If you don’t get a letter next mail after this it will mean either that we are entirely out of the reach of post offices, or that a tiger has eaten the dak-runner.

Chota Haganpore, March 25.

... a whole fortnight since I wrote last, and our tour is almost over.  On Wednesday we go back to Calcutta, and in April I sail for home.  The time has simply rushed past.  This last fortnight has been a time of pure delight; I have been too absorbed in enjoying myself to write.

First, we stayed two days in a town where Boggley had to open some sort of building.  The natives met us with a band, and there were decorations and mottoes and crowds.  In the evening a dramatic entertainment took place for our amusement—­Julius Caesar acted by schoolboys.  Mark Anthony wore a dhoti, a Norfolk jacket, and a bowler hat.  In the middle of “Friends, Romans, Countrymen,” the bowler fell off.  Still declaiming, he picked it up with his toes, caught it with his hand, and gravely put it on again—­very much on one side.  I envied the “mob” their serene calm of countenance.  Boggley and I made horrible faces in our efforts to preserve our gravity.

The next day Boggley played in a football match with these same boys.  One got a kick on the shin, and limping up to Boggley said, “Sir, I am wounded; I cannot play,” whereupon another ran up to the wounded one, crying, “Courage, brother.  Tis a Nelson’s death.”  Great dears I thought they were.