"Yes," he answered, "that is what I have tried to make it. I do not think plague or disease will ever find firm foothold here, and one day my people will learn to do for themselves what I do for them. They are as yet no more than children who have to be taught what is good and bad. There is the chief overseer." A respectable looking Hindu, who stood at the door of his hut, salaamed profoundly. It was as though he had given some secret signal, for in an instant the broad street was alive with dark, scantily clad figures, who bowed themselves to the dust and raised cries of welcome as the Rajah and his companion picked their way among them. It was a picturesque scene, not without its pathos; for their joy was sincere and their respect heartfelt. Beatrice glanced at Nehal Singh. A flush had crept up under his dark skin, and his eyes shone with suppressed enthusiasm. "Is their homage so precious to you?" she asked. "It is a sign that I have power over them," he answered, "and that is precious to me. Without power I could not do anything. They believe that I am God-sent, and so they obey blindly. Otherwise, these changes would have been impossible." He paused, smiling to himself; then, with a new amusement in his dark eyes, he looked at Beatrice. "My people are not fond of an over-abundance of clothing," he observed. "Do you consider a change in that respect essential?" Beatrice stared at him, and then, seeing that he was laughing, she laughed with him. "Certainly not! If the poor wretches knew what we poor Europeans have to suffer with our artificial over-abundance, their obedience would stop short at such a request. What made you think of such a thing?" "It was Mr. Berry who spoke to me about it. He said I ought to insist on them having what he called decent attire. It seems he had been using his influence in vain, and was very unhappy about it. He said as much that--that trousers were the first and most necessary step toward salvation." He looked quickly at her to see if she was offended at his outspokenness, but she only laughed. "Poor Mr. Berry is a Philistine," she said. "He can't help thinking absurdities of that sort." "Would you mind telling me what you mean by a Philistine?" he asked. "A Philistine is a person who sees everything in its wrong proportions," she answered. "He mistakes the essential for the unessential, and _vice versa._ He can never recognize the beauty in art or nature, because he can never get any further than the unpleasant details. One might call him a mental earth-worm who has only the smallest possible outlook. Mr. Berry, for instance, has never, I feel sure, felt the charm of India and its people. He is always too overpowered by the fact that the clothing is too scanty for his idea of decency. You must not take him as an example of European taste, although you will find only too many like him."