them back—­to settle down in their native States, and obey the orders of the Resident.  Do you think they will be content?  Do you think they will have their heart in their work, in their humdrum life, in their elaborate ceremonies?  Oh, there are instances enough to convince if only people would listen.  There’s a youth now in the South, the heir of an Indian throne—­he has six weeks’ holiday.  How does he use it, do you think?  He travels hard to England, spends a week there, and travels back again.  In England he is treated as an equal; here, in spite of his ceremonies, he is an inferior, and will and must be so.  The best you can hope is that he will be merely unhappy.  You pray that he won’t take to drink and make his friends among the jockeys and the trainers.  He has lost the taste for the native life, and nevertheless he has got to live it.  Besides—­besides—­I haven’t told you the worst of it.”

Dewes leaned forward.  The sincerity of Luffe had gained upon him.  “Let me hear all,” he said.

“There is the white woman,” continued Luffe.  “The English woman, the English girl, with her daintiness, her pretty frocks, her good looks, her delicate charm.  Very likely she only thinks of him as a picturesque figure; she dances with him, but she does not take him seriously.  Yes, but he may take her seriously, and often does.  What then?  When he is told to go back to his State and settle down, what then?  Will he be content with a wife of his own people?  He is already a stranger among his own folk.  He will eat out his heart with bitterness and jealousy.  And, mind you, I am speaking of the best—­the best of the Princes and the best of the English women.  What of the others?  The English women who take his pearls, and the Princes who come back and boast of their success.  Do you think that is good for British rule in India?  Give me something to drink!”

Luffe poured out his vehement convictions to his companion, wishing with all his heart that he had one of the great ones of the Viceroy’s Council at his side, instead of this zealous but somewhat commonplace Major of a Sikh regiment.  All the more, therefore, must he husband his strength, so that all that he had in mind might be remembered.  There would be little chance, perhaps, of it bearing fruit.  Still, even that little chance must be grasped.  And so in that high castle beneath the Himalayas, besieged by insurgent tribes, a dying Political Officer discoursed upon this question of high policy.

“I told you of a supper I had one night at the Savoy—­do you remember?  You all looked sufficiently astonished when I told you to bear it in mind.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Dewes.