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 CHAPTER V

WE LAND ON INDIAN SOIL not going to rhapsodise over the entry into Bombay Harbour. I am sure lots of other people have done that, and made of themselves horrid bores. In fact, I am not going to rhapsodise over anything in this book, except—well, perhaps I shall once or twice when I come to the dear little Shan chiefs at the Durbar with their quaint, wide, pagoda-hats, or perhaps the state entry, or Boy Patiala, or Sir Pertab Singh and the Imperial Cadets, or the State Ball in the Dewani Khas (or the Dewani Am, which was it? I never could remember which was which; they confused me as much as starboard and port on board ship, only, luckily, they didn't lead to such dreadful consequences), or the beautiful Vice-Reine, with her wonderful jewels, or—well, perhaps there are just a few things I must rhapsodise over later on, but they are not so hackneyed as Bombay Harbour. That is always there on view, and you have only got to take a ticket by P. and O., and there you are in fourteen days. That's the great mistake of being always on view—