‘Well, a diplomat, then. He’d look sweet in a cocked hat.’
‘Ah, no really, Lady Wyse, I pro-test,’ said Sir Benet; ‘you don’t know what a grind one has.... Besides....’
‘Ah! I forgot,’ said Lady Wyse, playing with her fan. ‘Prince Dwala’s a black. Isn’t he what’s called a black, Sir Benet?’
‘Well, really, Lady Wyse!’
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Dwala.
‘No, no!’ interposed the Biologist: ‘it’s quite a misuse of terms I assure you. The word is applied loosely to Africans; but it is a mistake to use it in speaking of the Archipelago. The Soochings, as I understand, belong to the Malayan family, with a considerable infusion, no doubt, of Aryan blood. “Dwa-la,” “Two Names,” is practically Aryan. So that the Prince belongs, in point of fact, to the same stock as ourselves. In fact, Lady Ballantyne mistook him for an Englishman....’
‘She’s as blind as a bat,’ said Lady Wyse. ‘Still, black or white, he belongs to a very old family.’
‘One of the oldest in the world,’ said Dwala.
‘Well, never mind. Shall we make a writer of him? I’m sure that doesn’t require any preparation.’
‘Ha, ha, that’s good!’ bellowed Lord Glendover. ‘Here, Howland-Bowser’—he beckoned the journalist, who was hovering near the group. ‘Lady Wyse says any fool can be a writer.’ He gripped him by the biceps, presenting him.