Dead greatness and the prosaic present.
Modern bungalows, where the faltering conqueror watches the tax-ridden ryots dot the landscape, and an overweighted official system brings its haughty military, its self-sufficient civilians, its proud womanhood, to drain the exhausted heart of India.

And the ryot groans under many taskmasters.
Lingering with a restless heart, in Allahabad, Alan Hawke roused himself as at a bugle call, when he received a telegram announcing the safe arrival of the Empress of India at Calcutta.
"La danse va commencer," he muttered, as he read the brief words of his employer: "Go on to Delhi, await me there.

Telegrams to you there at private address.

Leave letters." The signature "Lausanne" was a new spur to his well-considered prudence.

And, so, the next day, Major Hawke sedately descended at Delhi.
There was nothing to distinguish Hawke from any other well-to-do European, as he stood gazing around the station, in his cool linens, his pith helmet and floating puggaree.