He continued to smile more cheerfully than ever.
“Hundreds of juvenile Indians ready and willing to be killed for your Empire”—he rubbed it in—“but—No, Thank You. Indo-European people we are, Aryans, more consanguineous than Jews or Japanese. Ready to take our places beside you.... Well, anyhow, I rejoice to see that you are recovering to entire satisfaction. It was only when I descended after the fight that I perceived that it was you, and it seemed to me then that you were very seriously injured. I was anxious. And mem’ries of otha days. I felt I must see you.”
Peter and the young Indian looked at one another.
“Look here, Jelalludin,” he said, “I must apologize.”
“But why?”
“As part of the British Empire. No! don’t interrupt. I do. But, I say, do they—do we really bar you—absolutely?”
“Absolutely. Not only from the air force, but from any commission at all. The lowest little bazaar clerk from Clapham, who has got a commission, is over our Indian officers—over our princes. It is an everlasting humiliation. Necessary for Prestige.”
“The French have more sense, anyhow.”
“They take us on our merits.
“If I had a British commission,” said Jelalludin, “I should be made very uncomfortable. It is the way with British officers and gentlemen. The French are not so—particular.”