A BATAVIA HOTEL
of society accompanying them om their calls, for which I was told this was the hour. The a front gallerya of the hotel, a spacious hall supported on pillars, was brillantly lit. A girl sat at the piano, accompanying herself to one of those weird, thrilling songs such as Grieg and Jensen compose. And when I went in to the eight-oa clock dinner, the menu for which might have been written in any European hotel, I had some trouble in identifying the scene with that which, earlier in the day, had so rudely shocked my European ideas. I half believed the rice-table, the sarongs and kabayas, and the Javanese a boysa must have been a dream, until I was convinced of the contrary by the sight of a lean brown hand thrust out to change my plate of fish for a helping of asparagus.