“You will recognize in Watkins, gentlemen,” the Raja explained, “another representative of the Ruling Race.” Watkins touched his hat miserably to Crespin and Traherne, but he did not look at them. His eyes studied his shoes. “I assure you he rules me with an iron hand—not always in a velvet glove. Eh, Watkins?”
“Your ’Ighness will ’ave your joke,” the valet said lamely.
But the master was merciless. “He is my Prime Minister and all my cabinet—but more particularly my Lord Chamberlain. No one can touch him at mixing a cocktail or making a salad. My entire household trembles at his nod; even my chef quails before him. Nothing comes amiss to him; for he is, like myself, a man without prejudices. You may be surprised at my praising him to his face in this fashion; you may see some danger of—what shall I say?—swelled head. But I know my Watkins; there is not the slightest risk of his outgrowing that modest bowler. He knows his value to me, and he knows that he would never be equally appreciated elsewhere. I have guarantees for his fidelity—eh, Watkins?”
“I know when I’m well off, if that’s what Your ’Ighness means,” the man said, still without looking up.
“I mean a little more than that,” the Raja said quietly; “but no matter. I have sometimes thought of instituting a peerage, in order that I might raise Watkins to it. But I mustn’t let my admiration for British institutions carry me too far. . . . Those scoundrels of bearers are taking a long time, Watkins.”
“The lady’s litter ’ad to ’ave fresh curtains, Your ’Ighness,” the servant explained. “They won’t be a minute now.” And desperately Watkins hoped it. He was the most impatient and not the least anxious there now.
CHAPTER XIX
But it was many a minute before the litter-bearers came.
The Raja turned to Crespin. “You were speaking of transport, Major—” then to Traherne, “Is your machine past repair, Dr. Traherne?”
“Utterly, I’m afraid.”