A traveler wore a look of perpetual anxiety lest he should fail to get hotel or railway accommodations.
The India of one's imagination--the somber land of mystery, of untold riches, of eastern enchantment, of far-away romance--was gone, buried under picture post-cards, hustling tourists, and all the commonplaces of a popular tourist track.

It was distinctly disappointing from one point of view, and yet, I suppose, one should rejoice that his fellow countrymen have cash and energy enough to travel in distant places, even though they destroy the romantic charm of those places by so doing.
[Drawing: _Tourists in India_] The rush of Americans through India was as brisk as was the rush of Americans through Europe ten years ago.

Age was no handicap.

There were old couples, sixty, seventy, and eighty years old, jogging along as eagerly and excitedly as young bridal couples.

The conversation one encountered was always pretty much the same--how such a train was crowded, how accommodations could not be secured at such a hotel, how poor the hotels were, and how long they would have to wait to get a berth on some outgoing ship.