The soft, sea air, the warm days and mild nights were balm to us, after the dry scorch and frostbites up-country. The sight of Gothic architecture was a revelation after having reached the edge of satiety among Hindu, Jain, Mogul, Pathan, and Dravidian masterpieces. Street-cars, European shop-windows and houses were objects of interest; and to drive over sprinkled roads beside the soft-sounding sea, where bands played and fashion walked; to drink tea on club-house porches,—all this was too exciting.
We were invited to a Parsi wedding on our first day, and drove across the native city, around the curve of the Back Bay, and up the slopes of Malabar Hill to the villa of the bride's family. A procession of Parsi ladies, wrapped in saris of delicate silks, and preceded by a band, entered the gates before us and joined the group of Parsi women in gold-bordered saris who made the drawing-room blaze with their jewels. The bride was quiet and subdued, the groom self-possessed to the point of flippancy when he came in from the assemblage of Parsi men in the garden, all attired in white ceremonial dress and queer black hats. Bands played, and the ceremony by the priest was very long and full of symbolism. The bride, at one point, held a cocoanut and clasped the hand of the groom, while the priest delivered a long exhortation and showered them with rice, fruit, and flowers. The bride was invested with the jeweled necklaces and other gifts of the groom, sprinkled with rose-water, and touched with attar of roses in the strangely mixed Parsi and Hindu ceremony that has come about during the
