The water-sellers, the hawkers of vegetables
and of sweets, the cattle, the loafers and the children got into the way
and out of it in kaleidoscopic confusion. By the side of the street,
money-changers, wrapped in silent consideration, bent over their trays of
queer and outlandish coins. Bright cottons and silks flaunted pennons of
gorgeous colours. Brass, glowing like gold, rose piled on low wide
counters. In front stood the Palace, looking its best from this point, and
showing huge beside the huddle of wooden and plaster huts which hem it in.
General Raja Sir Amar Singh lives in a sort of glorified English villa.
Were it not for the flowering oleanders and hibiscus in front and the
silvery gleam of temple domes beyond, one might suppose oneself near the
banks of Father Thames. And were it not for the group of stalwart
retainers at the door, the illusion need not be lost on entering the house.
The hall and staircase were decorated with a profusion of skins and horns,
somewhat modern and brilliant rugs, and tall glasses full of flowers
closely copied from Nature; while the drawing-room was of a type very
frequently seen near London.
Like so many British reception-rooms, it shone replete with _objets d'art_,
rather inclining to Oriental luxury than Japanese restraint.
My host, who came in almost immediately, was charming, speaking English
with fluency, although he has never been in England.
He is essentially a strong man, and remarkably well posted in everything,
both political and social, that occurs in the state, mixing far more
freely than his brother with the English, towards whom his courtesy is
proverbial.
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