Magin shrugged his shoulders.
“Extraordinary people! Do you really think the rest of the world so stupid? Or is it that the fog of your island has got into your brains? You always talk about truth as if it were a patented British invention, yet no one is less willing to call a spade a spade. Look at Cairo, where you pretend to keep nothing but a consul-general, but where the ruler of the country can’t turn over in bed without his permission. A consul-general! Look at your novels! Look at what you yourself are saying to me!”
Matthews lighted a pipe over it.
“In a way, of course, you are right,” he said. “But I am not sure that we are altogether wrong. Spades exist, but there’s no inherent virtue in talking about them. In fact it’s often better not to mention them at all. There’s something very funny about words, you know. They so often turn out to mean more than you expected.”
At that Magin regarded his companion with a new interest.
“I would not have thought you knew that, at your age! But after all, if you will allow me to say so, it is a woman’s point of view. A man ought to say things out—and stick by them. He is less likely to get into trouble afterward. For example, it would have been not only more honest but more advantageous for your country if you had openly annexed Egypt in the beginning. Now where are you? You continually have to explain, and to watch very sharply lest some other consul-general tell the Khedive to turn over in bed. And since you and the Russians intend to eat up Persia, why on earth don’t you do it frankly, instead of trying not to frighten the Persians, and talking vaguely about spheres of influence, neutral zones, and what not? I’m afraid the truth is that you’re getting old and fat. What?” He glanced over his cigar at Matthews, who was regarding the trickle of the water beside them. “Those Russians, they are younger,” he went on. “They have still to be reckoned with. And they aren’t so squeamish, either in novels or in life. Look at what they have done in their ‘sphere.’ They have roads, they have Cossacks, they have the Shah under their thumb. And whenever they choose they shut the Baghdad trail against your caravans—yours, with whom they have an understanding! A famous understanding! You don’t even understand how to make the most of your own sphere. You have had the Karun in your hands for three hundred years, and what have you done with it? Why, in heaven’s name, didn’t you blast out that rock at Ahwaz long ago? Why haven’t you made a proper road to Isfahan? Why don’t you build that railroad to Khorremabad that you are always talking about, and finish it before the Germans get to Baghdad? Ah! If they had been here in your place you would have seen!”
“It strikes me,” retorted Matthews, with less coolness than he yet had shown, “that you are here already—from what the Father of the Swords told me.” And he looked straight at the man who had told him that an Englishman couldn’t call a spade a spade. But he saw anew how that man could ignore an advantage of position.
Magin returned the look—frankly, humorously, quizzically. Then he said:
“You remind me, by the way, of a question I came to ask you. Would you object to telling me what you are up to here?”
“What am I up to?” queried Matthews, in astonishment. The cheek of the bounder was really beyond everything! “What do you mean?”