"Dona praesentis cape laetus horae, ac
Lingue severa."—Horace.
Leonie's first long-distance journey was just like other people's first long-distance journey in India.
And being of the type which revels in the new and unknown, she loved it.
Who wouldn't!
The seething masses of dusky humanity enchanted her; she delighted in the glaring colouring, the clank of the holy man's chains, the incessant call of the water carrier and sweetmeat vendor, and the clang of iron on iron which announces the train's departure.
She absolutely thrilled on disrobing the first night in the little bathroom while her ayah spread her sheets and pillows and blankets upon the lower berth; and when her bodywoman disappeared through the door leading to the servants' compartment, she lay for a time watching the stars, and the glimmer of passing mosque, or temple, or tomb.
Then she laughed aloud in sheer content, wedged Jan Cuxson's box of chocolate biscuits safely into the side of the bunk, and turned to the side table to look for light literature in the shape of a magazine.
Having acquired the pernicious habit of eating biscuits and reading before going to sleep, she frowned upon the discovery that her ayah appeared to have left the books upon Howrah Station; and had stretched her arm to rap upon the wall to summon the woman, when her eye caught sight of a paper volume lying under the opposite bunk.
India is certainly a most dusty land, but a traveller can keep his railway compartment and boots spotless by distributing a few pice to the dusky, cheery youngsters, who, salaaming, solicit the favour of using boot polish, or floor brush, to the mutual benefit of self and the sahib. Leonie, therefore, felt no repugnance when, clutching the table with her left hand, she made a long arm and secured the book, which proved to be a guide to India's most famous beauty spots.
She turned the leaves casually and laughed.