It was nice and punctilious of him, the way he always dragged Cosimo in, and Amory liked it. She felt sure that the editor of the "Times," calling on the Prime Minister's wife, would not ignore the Prime Minister. But to-day she was a little abstracted--dull--she didn't know exactly what; and so she replied, without moving, "Would you like him here? He's busy with the '_Life_'." "Oh no, don't trouble him then." There was a pause. Then, "I did talk to him about it. And to Mr. Prang," Amory said. "Oh. Hm. Quite so," said Mr. Strong, looking at the toes of his brogues. "Yes. Mr. Prang was here last night," Amory continued, looking at the points of her own slippers. "Yes." Again Mr. Strong's chin was sunk into his red tie. He was rising and falling slowly on his toes. His eyes moved ruminatively sideways to the rug at Amory's feet. "Yes. Yes. I've been wondering----" he said thoughtfully. "Well?" "Oh, nothing really. I dare say I'm quite wrong. You see, Prang----" "What?" Amory asked as he paused again. There was a twinkle in the eyes that rose to Amory's. Mr. Strong gave a slight shrug.--"Well--Prang!----" he said with humorous deprecation. Amory was quick.--"Oh!--You don't mean that Mr. Prang isn't sound?" "Sound? Perfectly, perfectly. And a most capable fellow. Only I've wondered once or twice whether he isn't--you know--just a little _too_ capable.... You see, we want to use Prang--not to have Prang using _us_." Amory could not forbear to smile. If that was all that was troubling Mr. Strong she thought she could reassure him. "I don't think you'd have been afraid of that if you'd been here last night," she replied quietly. "We were talking over England's diabolical misrule, and I never knew Mr. Prang so luminous. It was pathetic--really. Cosimo was talking about that Rawal Pindi case--you know, of that ruffianly young subaltern drawing down the blinds and then beating the native.--'But how do they take it?' I asked Mr. Prang, rather scornfully, you know; and really I was sorry for the poor fellow, having to apologize for his country.--'That's it,' he said sadly--it was really sad.--And he told me, frankly, that sometimes the poor natives pretended they were killed, and sometimes they announce that they're going to die on a certain day, and they really _do_ die--they're so mystic and sensitive--it was _most_ interesting.... But what I mean is, that a gentle and submissive people like that--Mr. Prang admits that's their weakness--I mean they _couldn't_ use _us_! It's our degradation that we aren't gentle and sensitive too. You see what I mean?" "Oh, quite," Mr. Strong jerked out. "Quite." "And that's why I call Mr. Prang an idealist. There must be something _in_ the East. At any rate it was splendid moral courage on Prang's part to say, quite openly, that they couldn't do anything without the little handful of us here, but must simply go on suffering and dying."