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AMANULLAH

Amanullah had been back some little time. Yes,
great things were expected of Afghanistan, now that
the King had been to Europe. It was even hoped that
they would one day get their pay. . . .

There were one or two Germans in the little party
that sat down to dinner that night. There was a Chinese
merchant, and two big Russians in the uniform of the
Afghan Air Force. They, at any rate, had something
to do. There were two German women, wives of Afghan
officers who were away in the country. They were
blonde, stout, and typical townspeople, gathered, one
would say at a glance, from the suburbs of some big city
by a keen young Afghan who had been taking his military
training in Germany. This hotel, this damp room,
was the realisation of the colourful dreams of the
East which they had believed. This hotel was the end
of the journey. They longed once more for the lights
of civilisation.

We picked the least unappetising food and ate it.
One must eat.

The place was thick in dust and dirt. It was
Afghanistan's best hotel.

The next morning I went with Signor Pierri to the
old city. We dived once more into the labyrinthian
streets, but afterwards wandered round the great hostels
where lived the young Russian clerks and secretaries.
We saw the railway station, still in the hands of the
workmen. We looked at Kabul River, carrying the
putrefaction of one of the dirtiest cities in the world
under its bridges.

" There is little to do here," said Pierri. " There is
no life, no gaiety, just nothing to do. I wish I were
back in Rome. .. ."

His clothes, in that evil city of the East, had not been
affected by his few months' stay. He dressed with the