chatter demoniacally over his grave; and a cocked hat, emptier than
ever, rides with the mockery of despair on his coffin.

On Sunday evening, after tea and catechism, the Supreme Council
generally meet for riddles and forfeits in the snug little cloak-room
parlour at Peterhoff. "Can an army tailor make a Commander-in-Chief?"
was once asked. Eight old heads were scratched and searched, but no
answer was found. No sound was heard save the seething whisper of
champagne ebbing and flowing in the eight old heads. Outside, the wind
moaned through the rhododendron trees; within, the Commander-in-Chief
wept peacefully. He felt the awkwardness of the situation. [He thought
of Ali Musjid, and he thought of Isandula; he saw himself reflected in
the mirror, and he declared that he gave it up.] An aide-de-camp stood
at the door hiccupping idly. He was known to have invested all his
paper currency in Sackville Street; and he felt in honour bound to say
that the riddle was a little hard on the army tailors. So the subject
dropped.

A Commander-in-Chief is the most beautiful article of social
upholstery in India. He sits in a large chair in the drawing-room.
Heads and bodies sway vertically in passing him. He takes the oldest
woman in to dinner; he gratifies her with his drowsy cackle. He says
"Yes" and "No" to everyone with drowsy civility; everyone is
conciliated. His stars dimly twinkle--twinkle; the host and hostess
enjoy their light. After dinner he decants claret into his venerable
person, and tells an old story; the company smile with innocent joy.
He rejoins the ladies and leers kindly on a pretty woman; she forgives
herself a month of indiscretions. He touches Lieutenant the Hon.
Jupiter Smith on the elbow and inquires after his mother; a noble
family is gladdened. He is thus a source of harmless happiness to