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AMANULLAH

May they never again play their parts on the brink of
a volcano.

That same night I saw Sir Francis Humphrys. He was
in the hotel, no doubt for the first time, and was sitting
in the lounge with two of his staff. He also seemed
slightly bemused. Through his brain there raced the
incidents of that day, and we exchanged sympathetic
remarks as we wondered whether all this could really
have happened,

We had seen comedy and a little tragedy. We had
seen the blind faith of a man in his own powers. We had
seen the stupefaction of his subjects. We had seen, most
clearly of all, the results of a vanity that broke down
every barrier.

We exchanged nothing but conventional words of
politeness about the day. I knew I was watched in
Kabul wherever I went. I knew that grave suspicion
centred on everyone who was inquisitive. I knew that it
was unsafe for me to write in Kabul. Not even to
Pierri had I revealed my thoughts on the last few days.
I was still the awed and somewhat bewildered observer.

Sir Francis knew that. Without giving any indication
of his feelings, he suggested that I was returning to India
very shortly. I agreed. He reminded me that I had no
connection with the British Legation. I agreed. In the
event of trouble, he hinted, the Legation could take no
responsibility. I knew that. It was evidently important,
apart from the news to be cabled to London, that I must
leave Kabul as soon as possible.

The hotel was a seething mass of humanity. The
Afghan boys were enjoying themselves terrifically.
Everyone was talking of the day's events. Everyone was
joking and laughing. Everyone spoke of the future with
a little doubt and a careful look round to see that no ears
listened to their ribaldries.