"And yet the thought is very simple. The sand of Sahara, of Libya is different from your Devonshire soil. Just so; but, as I said, it grows food. It contains the same vital elements. The Arab is different from the Englishman; yes, but how deep is the difference? His skin is darker, true; he conveys his thoughts by different sounds, true. Even his thoughts may on the surface be different; but dig down deep, and you find the same elemental characteristics. The Eastern eats and sleeps, so does an Englishman. The Eastern loves and hates, so does an Englishman. The Eastern ponders over life's mysteries and wonders about the great unknown, so does the Englishman. In a less degree, I will admit, but he does. Pull aside the tawdry excrescences, Mr. Briarfield, and all places are alike, all men are alike. All men, all climes, all ages tell the same story."
"And the story? What is it?" asked Briarfield.
"Ah, I will not try and put that into words."
"Why?"
"It's not worth while."
Briarfield was silent for a moment; he was not quite sure whether the man was in earnest or not.
"Have you been in England long?" he asked presently.
"Three months."
"In what part, if I may ask?"
"London."