of
the senses; but, child, a man who dies for his country dies because he
likes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. It
is a law of creation. If it were possible for men to prefer pain to
pleasure the human race would have long since become extinct."

"But if all that is true," cried Philip, "what is the use of anything? If
you take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into the
world?"

"Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer," smiled Cronshaw.

He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of the cafe,
and, with a blast of cold air, entered. They were Levantines, itinerant
vendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on his arm a bundle. It was Sunday
evening, and the cafe was very full. They passed among the tables, and in
that atmosphere heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with
humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery. They were clad in
European, shabby clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but each
wore a tarbouch. Their faces were gray with cold. One was of middle age,
with a black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a face
deeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. They passed by Cronshaw
and Philip.

"Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet," said Cronshaw impressively.

The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to blows.
With a sidelong glance at the door and a quick surreptitious movement he
showed a pornographic picture.

"Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria, or is it from far
Bagdad that you bring your goods, O, my uncle; and yonder one-eyed youth,
do I see in him one of the three kings of whom Scheherazade told stories
to her lord?"

The pedlar's smile grew more ingratiating, though he understood no word of
what Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he produced a sandalwood box.

"Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms," quoth Cronshaw. "For I
would point a moral and adorn a tale."

The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous, and
grotesque.

"Thirty-five francs," he said.

"O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of Samarkand, and those
colours were never made in the vats of Bokhara."

"Twenty-five francs," smiled the pedlar obsequiously.

"Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even Birmingham the place
of my birth."

"Fifteen francs," cringed the bearded man.

"Get thee gone, fellow," said Cronsh