am obliged to you in return,' he said. 'It gives me real
pleasure to be able, through you, to repay Harold Tillington part of the
debt I owe him. He was so good to me at Oxford. Miss Cayley, you are new
to India, and therefore--as yet--no doubt unprejudiced. You treat a
native gentleman, I see, like a human being. I hope you will not stop
long enough in our country to get over that stage--as happens to most of
your countrymen and countrywomen. In England, a man like myself is an
Indian prince; in India, to ninety-nine out of a hundred Europeans, he
is just "a damned nigger."'

I smiled sympathetically. 'I think,' I said, venturing under these
circumstances on a harmless little swear-word--of course, in quotation
marks--'you may trust me never to reach "damn-nigger" point.'

'So I believe,' he answered, 'if you are a friend of Harold
Tillington's. Ebony or ivory, he never forgot we were two men together.'

[Illustration: WHO'S YOUR BLACK FRIEND?]

Five minutes later, when the Maharajah had gone to inquire about our
luggage, Lord Southminster strolled up. 'Oh, I say, Miss Cayley,' he
burst out, 'I'm off now; ta-ta: but remembah, that offah's always open.
By the way, who's your black friend? I couldn't help laughing at the
airs the fellah gave himself. To see a niggah sitting theah, with his
suite all round him, waving his hands and sunning his rings, and
behaving for all the world as if he were a gentleman; it's reahly too
ridiculous. Harold Tillington picked up with a fellah like that at
Oxford--doosid good cricketer too; wondah if this is the same one?'

'Good-bye, Lord Southminster,' I said, quietly, with a stiff little bow.
'Remember, on your side, that your "offer" was rejected once for all
last night. Yes, the Indian prince _is_ Harold Tillington's friend, the
Maharajah of Moozuffernuggar--whose ancestors were princes while ours
were dressed in woad and oak-leaves. But you were right about one
thing; _he_ behaves--like a gentleman.'

'Oh, I say,' the pea-green young man ejaculated, drawing back; 'that's
anothah in the eye for me. You're a good 'un at facers. You gave me one
for a welcome, and you give me one now for a parting shot. Nevah mind
though, I can wait; you're backing the wrong fellah--but you're not the
Ethels, and you're well worth waiting for.' He waved his hand. 'So-long!
See yah again in London.'

And he retired, with that fatuous smile still absorbing his features.

* * *