“Time enough to talk of that, Major,” the Raja insisted gayly, “when you have rested and recuperated after your adventure. You will do me the honor of dining with me this evening? I trust you will not find us altogether uncivilized.” It was courtly invitation, social entreaty even, but too it was princely command. The Englishmen recognized it, and obeyed it with a bow. Their anxiety raged, but their knees bent.
The woman took it up lightly. “Your Highness,” she said to him, “will have to excuse the barbarism of our attire. We have nothing to wear but what we stand up in.” And she made a delicate mouth at her tumbled tweed skirt and her warm, stout boots.
“Oh, I think we can put that all right,” the Raja told her. “Watkins!”
“Your ’Ighness!” Watkins came to heel.
“You are in the confidence of our Mistress of the Robes. How does our wardrobe stand?”
“A fresh consignment of Paris models came in only last week, Your ’Ighness.”
“Good! Then I hope, Madam, that you may find among them some rag that you will deign to wear.”
“Paris models, Your Highness!” she exclaimed, speaking as lightly as he had. “And you talk of being uncivilized!”
“We do what we can, Madam,” he returned with a bow. “I sometimes have the pleasure of entertaining European ladies”—Traherne turned aside as he bit at his lip, Crespin checked a frown—“though not, hitherto, Englishwomen—in my solitudes; and I like to mitigate the terrors of exile for them. Then as for civilization, you know, I have always at my elbow one of its most finished products. Watkins!”
“Your ’Ighness!” the finished product said in a voice that would have been sulky, had it dared, and he came forward with again a hint of slinking in his cat-like tread. Evidently the valet disliked this limelight.