Prince or no Prince," Dudley protested petulantly. "He is not our kind."
"This is Paris, you silly boy, not New England," said Carmelita with all the sophistication of her twenty-three years. "I'm not your kind either, you'll be saying next. I'm quite hopelessly Spanish, you know."
"You're different," vehemently.
Prince Rao-Singh was standing blandly behind Carmelita as she rose, holding her cloak ready for her and Dudley perceived that a march had been stolen upon him. At the curbing outside they hailed a flock of taxicabs driven by sleepy but voluble chauffeurs and were whisked several blocks along badly lighted streets to a somber stone private residence in a secluded avenue. There they disembarked chattering with anticipation from the taxis.
A soft-shoed Hindu servant appeared as if by magic as Rao-Singh turned his key in the door and took the party's wraps. And then it was like entering another world—a world of rich brocades and tapestries from the Orient, of silk cushions upon floors yielding and thick with precious rugs, of incense burning with acrid, insidious fumes and a great ugly bronzed Buddha at one end of a long reception hall.
"A taste of real India, is it not?" asked the
