“Yet I was curiously drawn to this tall, silent soldier, with his maimed arm and cold, gray eyes. If only I could draw a light of yearning and passion into those eyes it might bring the answering lightning from my heart and let me, the princess, know such love as peasants only can afford! And so I hesitated and then finally when, through the India Office, the formal assent of my family was handed me, I consented. Formal announcement of the engagement was gazetted and became a nine days’ wonder; at Haslemere, some of the great names of England, including British royalty itself, gathered at my betrothal ball.
“I was quite happy. Happy at the gracious reception of my royal blood into the noble blood of England; happy at my consciousness of power. I stood, with my English maidens in attendance, and looked across the ballroom floor—beautiful women, flashing uniforms, stately personages, soft-footed servants; the low hum of word and laughter, the lilt of music.
“Suddenly tears rose in my throat. I was happy, of course, but I wanted love. I had been repressed and cool and haughty toward this wounded man of my choice. I was suddenly yearning to let my naked heart look unveiled into his eyes and see if I would flame and his tense cold face kindle in reply. Where was he? I searched the hall with my glance. He had been beside me but a quarter of an hour since. A mischievous-eyed young maiden of my train blushed, smiled, and nodded. I smiled an answer and turned. There was a draped passage to the supper room behind us, and looming at the end was that easily recognized form. I waved my maidens back, and turning, entered noiselessly. I wanted to be alone with love for one moment, if perchance love were there.
“He was talking to someone I could not see. I stepped forward and his voice held me motionless.
“It was the Marchioness of Thorn. I froze. I could not move. His voice came low and tense, with much more feeling in it than I had ever heard before:
“ ‘What else is there for me, a poor and crippled younger son? Can you not see, dearest, that this is a command on the field of battle? Think what it means to have this powerful buffer state, which we nearly lost, in the hands of a white English ruler; a wall against Bolshevik Russia, a club for chaotic China; a pledge for future and wider empire.’
“ ‘But you’ll only be her consort.’
“ ‘I shall be Maharajah in my own right. The India Office has seen to that. I can even divorce her if I will, and I can name my own successor. Depend upon it, he’ll be white.’
“Then came the answering voice, almost shrill:
“ ‘Malcolm, I can’t bear the thought of your mating with a nigger.’
“ ‘Hell! I’m mating with a throne and a fortune. The darky’s a mere makeweight.’
“In those words I died and lived again. The world crashed about me, but I walked through it; turning, I beckoned my maidens, who came streaming behind.
“ ‘Malcolm, this is our waltz,’ I said as I came into the light. He stood at attention, and the Marchioness, bowing slightly, began talking to the women, as we two glided away. I went through ball and supper, speeded my guests, and let the Captain kiss my hand in farewell. He paused and lingered a bit over it and came as near looking perturbed as I ever saw him; he was not sure how much I had overheard; but I bit blood from my lips and looked at him serenely. The next day I left for London and India to prepare for the intra-Imperial and interracial wedding.”
Matthew and Kautilya had long been walking through the night lights of the crowded streets downtown, hand in hand as she talked. Now she paused and at Michigan and Van-Buren, they stood awhile shoulder to shoulder, letting the length of their bodies touch lightly. As they waited a chance to cross Michigan, a car snorted and sought to slip by, then came to a wheezy halt.
“Well, well, well!” said the Honorable Sammy, holding out a fat hand and eyeing them quizzically. They greeted him with a smile.
“Say, can’t we have a talk?” he asked finally.
“Sure,” said Matthew. “Come to my den.”
Sammy could not keep his eyes off Kautilya, although there was frank puzzlement in them rather than his usual bold banter. They rode north rapidly in his car, seated together in the rear with close clasped hands. Once at home, Kautilya made Sammy silently welcome and said little. She arranged the small table as Matthew lighted the fire, warmed up a bit of the curry, and brought out a decanter of dark, old crimson wine.
The Honorable Sammy gurgled and expanded.
“What ya gonna do?” he asked. “Gee, this stuff’s great—what is it?”
“Indian curry—We don’t know yet.”
“Want a job?”
“No,” said Matthew slowly, and Kautilya walked over to him softly and slipped an arm about his shoulder.
“Can’t coo on air,” said Sammy with some difficulty, his mouth being pretty full. “See here! ’Course you and Sara couldn’t make it. I never expected you to. She’s—well, you’re different. Now suppose you just get a divorce. My friend, the judge, will fix it up in a month, and then I can hand you a little job that will help with the bread and butter.”
“She can have the divorce,” said Matthew.
“But,” said Sammy, “you get it, and get it first.” Matthew did not answer.
“You see,” explained Sammy elaborately,
