of stars. I know that my own land is the best land, that the fat babu with his carefully oiled and parted hair and his too-apparent sock-suspenders can't be mentioned in the same breath as the Britisher; that our daffodils and primroses are sweeter far than the heavy-scented blossoms of the East; that the "brain-fever" bird of India is a wretched substitute for the lark and the thrush and others of "God's jocund little fowls"; that Abana and Pharpar and other rivers of Damascus are better than this Jordan—all this, I say, I know; but tonight I don't believe it.
India has thrown golden dust in my eyes, and I am seeing things all wrong. We have anchored for the night.... I am watching the misty green blur, which is all that is left to me of India, grow more and more indistinct as darkness falls. Soon it will be night.
G., who has been absolutely silent for more than an hour, sat up suddenly just now, and took my hand.
"Olivia," she said. "It's a nice place, England." Her tone was the tone of one seeking reassurance.
"It is," I said dolefully. "Very."
"And it really doesn't rain such a great deal."
