EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Pierri, and he follows me unhappily to the side of the
tennis court.

No wonder there is a crowd. For on the court is
Amanullah. With him is his brother, fat Inayatullah,
with two youths of the Palace. The crowd watches,
very awed, as they play the strange imported game.

Amanullah is no good, but is terribly energetic* He
has not troubled to change his clothes for the game, but
has only taken off coat and waistcoat and collar. The
Royal garments, indeed, lie on the side of the court.
That is like Amanullah. He suddenly felt like playing
tennis. Very well then. He played,

Poor as he is, he is physically far better fitted for any
activity than is Inayatullah. The elder brother, we
suspect, is there only because the King commands.
He looks very unhappy, and is sweating profusely
through his shirt and trousers. He holds the racquet
clumsily, and every effort he makes to chase the elusive
ball is greeted by a gust of laughter from the other side
of the net. Amanullah taunts him, cries with glee, and
lets the crowd know that he is highly amused at the
antics of his elder brother.

A queer scene, this. The Court makes merry before
the public. The King plays a childish new game and
taunts his brother for his fatness. Habibullah was
never like this. The old Amirs of Afghanistan, dignified
and majestic, never let their humanity shine through
the majesty of the throne. Yet here is the King, three
days before the annual jirga, playing a game in the
public gardens. Strange times, and strange events in
the forbidden land.

So we think, as we move on to the caf£, and take a
table overlooking the gardens, on the terrace. It is
already fairly well populated. There are half the
members of the European population. The Italian

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