After a while Patwal was reached. Between the stems of trees in a thick mango tope white tents were seen, on which the golden rays of the sun about to set cast a rich warm glow. At a short distance the camels which had carried tents and luggage were tethered, some crouching on the ground, some browsing on the lower branches of trees. Turbaned servants were moving hither and thither. Extemporized fire-places in the open air, from whose neighbourhood sundry savoury scents proceeded, showed that the Sahib’s dinner was in course of preparation. Mr. Hartley dismounted and gave his card to one of the attendants, to be taken to the Commissioner Sahib. After a short delay the servant returned with his master’s saláms, the Oriental formula of admitting a guest. As the Hartleys approached the large, square, flat-roofed tent of Mr. Thole, they heard the commissioner’s voice from within give the order to lay dinner for three. India is the land of hospitality; even had Mr. Thole never before met either of his visitors, he would have welcomed them to his well-spread board. For no one need associate the idea of discomfort, far less that of hardship, with the life of a commissioner going the round of his district in the cooler months of the year. A good double tent holds all that even luxury may require. The great Sahib has his numerous satellites,—munshi to write, khansamar to cook, and masalchi to wash up the dishes. He has his bearer to anticipate every want, khitmatgars to wait at his well-furnished table; sweeper, water-bearer, camel-drivers, and two servants to attend on each of his horses—one to groom him, the other to cut grass. Besides this troop of attendants, from each town and village near the halting-place come obsequious natives—those of the higher rank on gaily-caparisoned horses, the more lowly peasants on foot. Some come to offer petitions, some to seek employment, some, as it appears, only to pay their homage to one of the lords of creation. What lies under all this outward respect we need not now inquire. The government of our Empress-Queen’s vast possessions in India may be described as a kind of oligarchy, the English officials forming an aristocracy to which all pay at least the semblance of honour. Low are the saláms, fulsome the compliments paid to one of the higher grade, the official’s rank rising, it appears, in due proportion to the shortening of his titles. An assistant deputy commissioner is a chhotá Sahib (little gentleman); cut off the first word, and he rises, we may say, to the rank of a baron; cut off the second, and you may regard him as an earl at the least. Strange must it seem to our Anglo-Indians, on going home for good, to find themselves lost in a crowd, none to follow them, flatter and fawn, meat dear and chickens expensive. Some doubtless heave a sigh at the remembrance of the old days passed in India, when in the pleasant cold weather they went camping out in the district.