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 than the last—a glory of silk and satin and velvet, of gold and silver, of diamonds and emeralds and pearls and rubies—a veritable glittering dream of the fabled wealth of IndIndia [sic]. One grew confused and bewildered with it all; one's brain refused to follow and take in all that the dazzled eyes rested upon. The glorious blue of the Eastern sky, the dark red line of the Fort for far-off background, the strange, many-coloured crowd, swayed by excitement such as had not been in Delhi for more than a generation, the slowly-pacing line of majestic elephants carrying their gorgeous burdens, all made up a bewildering picture that even one's imagination could scarcely have conceived. Here at least was nothing of the West, nothing of the twentieth century. Just such men as these, clothed as they were, riding with the same superb arrogance, it might be in the very same howdahs, might have graced the triumph of the greatest of the Moghul Emperors. Nothing was changed. Here was a pageant to delight the heart of a lover of the past. Then again the scene changed. The great chiefs had passed, ending up with the dear little Shan chiefs with their wonderful pagoda hats, and one of them with the charming little princess Tip Atila, his sister, sitting by his side. The gorgeous feast of Oriental colour was over, and straightway one was back in the West again—the land of ugly headgear and frock coats. The Grand Duke of Hesse, who looked to be thoroughly enjoying himself all through the festivities, came by in a carriage and four, followed by Governors,