are rich—and happy—when they have three square meals a day, a handful of brittle Latakia tobacco leaves and …”
“But you are a European!” interrupted Mr. Warburton. “You are an Englishman, the descendant of a nation of shopkeepers.”
“Yes. But I am also the regent of this country. And I have not been here very long. Perhaps a measure of development may do Tamerlanistan a whole lot of good. I don't know—yet.”
“I can prove to you that …”
“You can prove to me exactly nothing—at least about Tamerlanistan. I must learn by myself, and I am rather slow. I take one step at a time, and my present step is over yonder”—he pointed west, through the window where brilliant wedges of sunlight misted the town with golden gauze. “I must pacify the border province. Nothing else counts.”
“Right there I can help you. I tell you I have a great deal of pull with the British-Indian government.”
“Oh, yes. You told me. Rifles and bullets and all that sort of thing. But I fancy I shan't need them. I have rather a different plan. Anyway, there'll be no talk of concessions until either I know more about Tamerlanistan than I do know, or until the former prime minister, Hajji Akhbar Khan, returns from abroad. He and the late Ameer had certain ideas about these concessions.”
“I remember,” said Mr. Warburton, with rather a grim smile. “They wouldn't even listen to the propositions I made them through the Babu Chandra—”
