“The Maharajah of Kahlapore? Yes, he must be here, surely. I never come nowadays but he is.”
He turned his head and craned his neck in an effort to locate the Hindu potentate. The piazza of the pavilion was, as usual, crowded. Every table was occupied—and the throng was the acme of cosmopolitanism. Five continents were represented. It was indeed a veritable congress of nations. Monarchs, kings dethroned, and pretenders rubbed elbows. Women of the world and of the half-world brushed skirts. Dazzling toilets of delicate tints were silhouetted against coats of lustreless black. Diamonds blazed; pearls reflected the myriad lights; gems of all colours, shapes, and sizes glistened in the foreground and sparkled in remote corners.
“Ah, there he is,” Edson discovered, speaking without turning his face; “there, off to the right. You can just see his white turban over the head of that Titian-haired woman in the blue gown.”
The whole party stared, stretching, twisting to get a glimpse.
“Rather insignificant, isn’t he?” observed Mrs. Dickie disparagingly.
“His turban accentuates his café au lait complexion,” laughed Hope.
“But you should see him at finger-bowl time,” suggested Lady Constance, who had lunched next to him and his suite that day at Paillard’s. “He is most original.”
“Oh, tell us,” cried Hope pleadingly; “what does he do?”
“It must be seen to be appreciated,” the Englishwoman replied. She was auburn-haired, generously proportioned, and rather stolid. Her tone was even more of a refusal than her words.
“I’ll tell you,” volunteered Edson glibly. “He has a special bowl twice the ordinary size and he plunges his whole face in it.”