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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

There were rattles and high words from the Chinese
diplomat with the mysterious wife on the other side.
There were bumps and heavings down the passage—
from the huge-booted Russian, I guessed. And, faithful
to his time-table, there came a knock on the door from
the insolent, semi-educated Afghan serving boy, bringing
this morning two boiled eggs, a saucer full of salt, a
gargantuan pot of milk, sugar—and, though I was
beginning to hope wildly that he had remembered
everything—no tea. The omission was repaired, how-
ever, within three-quarters of an hour—a record for the
boy and the hotel. Truly this was a big day in history.

The clamour outside redoubled. The spectators had
begun to assemble, and each had endeavoured somehow
to add to the noise. There were even more bugles
collected from somewhere. The grape-sellers had
doubled their stocks for the day. The great piles of
fruit on the stalls had grown even bigger. New little
stalls had been erected, and were causing private little
wars in every corner of the square. The policemen
were more dignified, more bullying, more impressive,
and more ineffectual than ever. They were standing
in little groups in the centre of the square, smoking and
chatting, ceasing only now and then from their high
political discussions to land out lustily and haphazardly
with their staves at the assembled crowds. The effect
was good, for they seemed to, get even more enjoyment
from their cigarettes after one of these affrays.

I locked up my trunks and went downstairs. The
Russian in the boots, who seemed to spend his life
half-way down the staircase, was at his post. As the
days passed, he seemed to be becoming less and less
contented as I gave him his morning cigarette. But
this morning he smiled.

" Cigarette!" he said, and I contend to this day

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