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.
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