“Possibly, Madam,” the Raja of Rukh said with a grave laugh. “How my esteemed fellow-creatures were ever bluffed into piety is a mystery to me. Not,” he added, “that I’m complaining. If men could not be bluffed by the Raja above, how much less would they be bluffed by us rajas below. And though life is a contemptible business, I don’t deny that power is the best part of it.”
“In short,” Traherne said, “Your Highness is a Superman.”
“Ah, you read Nietzsche? Yes, if I weren’t of the kindred of the Buddha, I should like to be of the race of that great man.”
The last servant withdrew noiselessly. Till now they had hovered about with their trays of refreshments and tobacco.
Lucilla rose and moved to the loggia opening. “There is the moon rising over the snowfields,” she said. “I hope you wouldn’t banish her from the heavens?”
“Oh, no—I like her silly face”—he had followed Mrs. Crespin—“her silly, good-natured face. And she’s useful to lovers and brigands and other lawless vagabonds, with whom I have great sympathy. I am an Oriental, you know. Besides, I don’t know that she’s so silly, either. She seems to be forever raising her eyebrows in mild astonishment at human folly.”
Crespin stirred impatiently, and said, insistently, if a little thickly, “All this is out of my depth, Your Highness. We’ve had a rather fatiguing day. Mightn’t we—”
“To be sure,” Rukh replied agreeably—too agreeably, Dr. Traherne thought—“I only waited until the servants had gone. Now”—solicitously, always the perfect host—“are you all quite comfortable?”
“Quite,” Lucilla assured him, sitting down again.
Rukh turned to Traherne. “Perfectly, thank you,” the doctor said.