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AMANULLAH

colonel has come up from Kabul for the day, and joins
our table. We order tea.

Over in the corner is All Ahmed Jhan, the strong man
of Kabul. He is Governor, reputed to be of terrific
authority in the whole country, a genial rascal of the
old school who has survived the many changes in his
capital. He is at the right hand of the King still. He
bows to us, and smiles illumine his broad bewhiskered
face. He is popular in Kabul still.

A German blonde comes in with her half-white
children. She is wife of an Afghan Minister. A Japanese
girl, very modern in her clothes, with a Turkish officer.
Two Russians from the hotel. Two German engineers.
More Italians. The caŁ6 is filling up.

The daylight is going, swiftly and beautifully, as
.there is another stir on the steps leading to the caf6,
and Amanullah comes to a reserved table.

He is flushed with his game, but Inayatullah is purple.
Amanullah has jacket and waistcoat over his arm, and
is still laughing at the antics of his opponent. Just
now, he looks less than his thirty-nine years—an
adventurous boy when he is at a crisis of a lifetime.

The long low note of the Imam calling from the
mosque, comes stealing up to the cafŁ. It blends so
perfectly with the peace of the evening and the growing
dusk. There can be seen a movement of men towards
their evening prayer. But the sound is swallowed up
in the chatter of the cafŁ where the Court takes tea.

The parasites and the flatterers are round the Bang
now. They are talking of the celebrations for Indepen-
dence Day. I am taken up to the King, and we mutter
compliments in French. He is not interested in my
presence, He takes it as natural that there should be
Englishmen in Kabul. Yet I know that I am the only
one unconnected with the Legation. Dusk is nearly

154