IN THE TENT AT CHITIPTUR The marquee was large and high.

It had a thick lining of a dull red colour and a carpet covered the floor; cushioned basket chairs and a few small tables stood here and there; against one wall rose an open escritoire with a box of cheroots upon it; the two passages to the sleeping-tents and the kitchen were hidden by grass-screens and between them stood a great Chesterfield sofa.

It was, in a word, the tent of people who were accustomed to make their home in it for weeks at a time.
Even the latest books were to be seen.

But it was dark.
A single lamp swinging above the round dinner-table from the cross-pole of the roof burnt in the very centre of the tent; and that was all.

The corners were shadowy; the lining merely absorbed the rays and gave none back.