He was full of animal exuberance, and his eyes, a
trifle faded, it must be admitted, were still keenly alive and
observant. He was big of bone, florid of skin, and his hair--
what remained of it--was wiry and bleached. His clothes,
possibly cut from an old measure, hung loosely about the girth--
a sign that time had taken its tithe. For thirty-five years he
had served his country by cunning speeches and bursts of fine
oratory; he had wandered over the globe, lulling suspicions here
and arousing them there, a prince of the art of diplomacy.
He had not been sent here to watch this kingdom. He was touching
a deeper undercurrent, which began at St. Petersburg and moved
toward Central Asia, Turkey and India, sullenly and irresistibly.
And now his task was done, and another was to take his place,
to be a puppet among puppets. He feared no man save his valet,
who knew his one weakness, the love of a son on whom he had shut
his door, which pride forbade him to open. This son had chosen
the army, when a fine diplomatic career had been planned--a
small thing, but it sufficed. Even now a word from an humbled
pride would have reunited father and son, but both refused to
speak this word.
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