37 2 A Sportswoman in India 



tattered arras clung to the walls ; the faded, ant-eaten 

 carpets lay rotting on the floors ; the fabric of the 

 curtains scarcely hung together ; dusty furniture filled 

 the rooms ; there were big, old-fashioned, four-post 

 beds, with mouldering mosquito-curtains still clinging 

 to them ; even a few knick-knacks lay about undis- 

 turbed ; and I saw an old pair of boots. 



Beyond the bungalow stretched down to the banks 

 of the Cauvery a wilderness of a garden ; from the 

 garden, worn stone steps led down to the river ; and 

 upon a hot rock in the middle of the water lay a 

 great crocodile basking in the sun. Some half-worn, 

 childish initials, cut deep into the bark of an old, mossy 

 tree trunk, " T. S." and " W. H. S.," were infinitely 

 touching. The bungalow was indeed a derelict. Were 

 we living now or then ? " Is civilisation a failure ? 

 And is the Circassian played out ? " Morbid ten- 

 dencies cannot live in juxtaposition with the native, 

 however. For example, we trained back from 

 Seringapatam to Bangalore, and at one station where 

 we stopped for tiffin great efforts in the decoration 

 line had evidently been made. At each end of the 

 table we were faced by vast letters composed of small 

 yellow seed, upon the cloth, " W.C." This stood for 

 Welcome. 



I hope it may never be my lot to travel on such a 

 slow line again. A distance of eighty miles took us 

 from 1 1 a.m. to 7 p.m. to accomplish ten miles an 

 hour. We had, however, the consolation of plenty 

 of space a reserved carriage for the ladies and 



