The "Rajah" listened in silence, looking thoughtfully at Michael Petroff. Then he said: "I should like to have a word with you."
"I am quite at your service!"
The "Rajah's" eyes wandered over the garden slowly and with dignity.
"Shall we go over to that bench?"
"With pleasure."
The "Rajah" sat down, and with a condescending gesture invited Michael Petroff to be seated also.
"I see you writing all the time—" he began,
Michael Petroff lifted his cap. "Michael Petroff, Captain in the Russian army," he said politely.
The "Rajah" looked at him and went on, with his usual quiet pride: "Since you write, you must understand. And you surely must have gained knowledge of men and things from sacred books, which are closed to the rest of us, and you must have passed your life in meditation, according to the rules of your caste. Very well. Then explain to me the words of the Fakir, who, according to the inscrutable decision of the Gods, is bearing up the universe on his shoulders. Speak!"
Michael Petroff smiled, highly flattered, and bowed to the "Rajah." He did not really understand all that the "Rajah" said, but he perceived that his words expressed respect and admiration. He felt that it was in some way his duty to confide to the "Rajah" the secret of his paper, but to his own surprise he asked: "You mean our friend Engelhardt?"