ALL THINGS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM at Burford, as I have ventured to suggest. But the majority of the inhabitants think that they are. Probably at one time they were; but with the development of the spirit of modern enterprise in the town a new complexion has been put upon various features associated with the daily life of the place, so that one needs to go beneath the surface of things in general in order to find out what they really are.

It was literally the new complexion put upon a very ordinary commercial undertaking that caused some of the most self-respecting of the inhabitants to forget themselves upon one occasion a year or two ago. To be sure, they had done nothing that should have caused even the most susceptible a qualm; but they thought they had, and this impression was strengthened by the attitude of a good many of their friends, so that the result was just as unpleasant to them as if they had been guilty of some gross piece of foolishness.

The circumstances of this new complexion must be dealt with in detail in order to be fully appreciated by people outside Burford.

When an announcement appeared in the local newspapers that the town would shortly be visited by a distinguished Hindu, the Cachar of Darjeeling, a considerable amount of excitement was caused in the best circles of Burford Society—the best circles, it is scarcely necessary to say, are those that have their centre somewhere in the new quarter, the bright red-brick villa quarter of the town—and every one was inquiring what Mrs. Paston would do in the matter. Mrs. Paston had obtained in many quarters an ample recognition of her authority as arbiter elegantarium, and her lead in social matters was regarded as inevitable even by those who could not conscientiously accept her dicta as the last word on every point.

What will Mrs. Paston do when the Cachar of Darjeeling comes to Burford? That was the question which people asked of one another over cups of tea with occasional muffins; and the result of many conferences under these or similar conditions was a resolution that a deputation of ladies appointed themselves to wait on her, one at a time, to learn what she really meant to do.

But it seemed that Mrs. Paston had not quite made up her mind on the matter. The Cachar of Darjeeling is, of course, a prince—quite as much a prince as the others one hears about—begums, sowdars, rajahs, jams, ranees, gaekwars, khansamahs—all referred to by Mr. Kipling; and, of course, being a prince, he was, ex officio, eligible to be received even by the best people in Burford. To be sure, she had heard it said that—that—but for that matter there was as much wickedness at home, if people only took the trouble to look for it; and there was no need for people with daughters to put them forward in the presence of distinguished strangers, whether Indian princes or Austrian counts.

That was how Mrs. Paston took the various deputations of one into her confidence when they endeavoured to find out what she meant to do in regard to the coming visit of the distinguished Oriental, and they interpreted her mystic phrases as meaning that she meant to keep the Prince to herself. Within a few days the Cachar had come to be alluded to as “the Prince.” In the English provinces practically every man of colour is accepted as a prince—it is a courtesy title, pretty much the same as the title of Madame which goes with a bonnet shop in the West End. Even the dusky person who accompanies the clergyman to the platform when a lecture is about to be given upon missionary work in the East, is referred to as “the Prince” that being the sanctioned English equivalent to his native title, which conveys nothing to the general public.

Yes, it seemed pretty clear that Mrs. Paston intended to keep the distinguished visitor to herself—that was why she made herself ambiguous when approached on the subject of his reception.

But there were other authorities besides Mrs. Pas-ton, and one of them was Mrs. Maxwell. She was the wife of a retired Indian Civil Servant, and the quasi Reception Committee showed some eagerness to learn what her attitude would be in regard to the coming Cachar of Darjeeling.

But Mrs. Maxwell said that her husband thought there had as usual been some misprint or mixing up of words in the paper, for he had never heard of the Cachar of Darjeeling; though there was a place named Cachar, and it was in Darjeeling, and very likely there was a prince or whatever they chose to call him in the neighbourhood.

This was not getting much farther on in the solution of the question that agitated the red-tiled group of Burford Society. It was pointed out by one sagacious lady that the fact of there being a place named Cachar in Darjeeling did not make it impossible that there should be a title of Cachar. They had not to go far from home for an example of this. Was there not a Lochiel in Scotland, and yet Lochiel was a place? Was there not a Magillicuddy in Ireland, and Magillicuddy was a mountain? It was pretty obvious that both Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Paston were temporising with the Committee; each was doing her best to put the others off the idea of leaving cards upon the Cachar, hoping to take him under her own wing and keep him there.

That was the opinion of more than one of the inquirers, and a good deal of bitterness was occasioned by the reticence of the leaders. But no one seemed to know what was the object of the Princes visit to Burford, how long it was going to last, or with whom he meant to stay.