“We are given to understand,” the soldier went on, “that this is the State of Rukh.”
Just a hinted shadow of a smile touched the Raja’s fine lips—a smile in little akin to the twitch or grimace that does the West for smiling, but a half-flicker that sometimes falls for a moment on high-bred Eastern faces, just touching the mouth, but not made by it. “The Kingdom of Rukh,” the Raja said smoothly. “Major—if I rightly read the symbols on your cuff—”
“Major Crespin,” Antony stated, saluting again. “Permit me to introduce my wife.”
The Raja of Rukh saw Mrs. Crespin for the first time—apparently. He salaamed profoundly, his obeisance to her as immediate and deep as his bend of the head to her husband had been slow and perfunctory. “I am delighted, Madam,” he told her, “to welcome you to my secluded dominions. You are the first lady of your nation I have had the honor of receiving.”
“Your Highness is very kind,” Mrs. Crespin said, rising—Traherne was glad that she did that—and taking a half-step towards the glittering figure.
“And this,” Crespin gestured, “is Dr. Basil Traherne, whose aeroplane—or what is left of it—you see.”
The Raja smiled, more widely, more genially this time, and he and Traherne exchanged a direct, level look. “Dr. Traherne? The Doctor Traherne whose name I have so often seen in the newspaper? The Pasteur of Malaria?”
So this unexpected barbarian read the Statesman and the Pioneer! But of course, speaking the English he did, he would.
“The newspapers make too much of my work,” Traherne disallowed. “It is very incomplete.”
“Rome was not built in a day,” the Raja laughed, “or the Taj. But you are an aviator as well.”