None the less he was the next morning the complete tourist doing India
at express speed during a cold weather. He visited the Museum, he walked
through the Elephant Gate into the bazaar, he was rowed over the lake to
the island palaces; he admired their marble steps and columns and floors
and was confounded by their tinkling blue glass chandeliers. He did the
correct thing all through that morning and early in the afternoon climbed
into the little train which was to carry him back to Jarwhal Junction and
the night mail to Bombay.

"You will have five hours to wait at the junction, Mr. Thresk," said the
manager of the hotel, who had come to see him off. "I have put up some
dinner for you and there is a dâk-bungalow where you can eat it."

"Thank you," said Thresk, and the train moved off. The sun had set before
he reached the junction. When he stepped out on to the platform twilight
had come--the swift twilight of the East. Before he had reached the
dâk-bungalow the twilight had changed to the splendour of an Indian
night. The bungalow was empty of visitors. Thresk's bearer lit a fire and
prepared dinner while Thresk wandered outside the door and smoked. He
looked across a plain to a long high ridge, where once a city had
struggled. Its deserted towers and crumbling walls still crowned the
height and made a habitation for beasts and birds. But they were quite
hidden now and the sharp line of the ridge was softened. Halfway between
the old city and the bungalow a cluster of bright lights shone upon the
plain and the red tongues of a fire flickered in the open. Thresk was in
no hurry to go back to the bungalow. The first chill of the darkness had
gone. The night was cool but not cold; a moon had risen, and that dusty
plain had become a place of glamour. From somewhere far away came the
sound of a single drum. Thresk garnered up in his thoughts the beauty of
that night. It was to be his last night in India. By this time to-morrow