So we rose and followed the obsequious official into another
apartment.
The room where the maharajah awaited us was even smaller than the one
into which we had been first shown. It was on the back of the house, and
only half lighted by the few rays of afternoon sun that struggled
through the dense foliage outside. I suppose this apartment had been
chosen as the scene of the interview on account of its seclusion.
Outside the window, which was closed, a sowar paced slowly up and down
to keep away any curious listeners. A heavy curtain hung before the door
through which we had entered. I thought that on the whole the place
seemed pretty safe.
The old maharajah sat cross-legged upon a great pile of dark-red
cushions, his slippers by his side, and a huge hookah before him. He
wore a plain white pugree with a large jewel set on one side, and his
body was swathed and wrapped in dark thick stuffs, as if he felt keenly
the cold autumn air. His face was long, of an ashy yellowish colour, and
an immense white moustache hung curling down over his sombre robe. One
hand protruded from the folds and held the richly-jewelled mouthpiece of
the pipe to his lips, and I noticed that the fingers were long and
crooked, winding themselves curiously round the gold stem, as if
revelling in the touch of the precious metal and the gems.
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