"
Hugh Geoffries stood a long time after the Rajah had left him,
absorbed in wondering speculation. Who was this strange man who a few
weeks ago had been but a shadow, and to-day stood in the midst of
them, sharing their life and yet curiously alone? He had met other
Indian rulers, but they had not been as this man. They had also joined
the European life, but they had come as strangers and had remained as
strangers. They had learned to assume an outward conformity which this
prince had not needed to learn. And yet he stood alone, even among his
own people alone. Wherein lay the link, wherein the barrier? Was it
caste, religion?
Hugh Geoffries found no answer to these questions. He went home
sobered and thoughtful, dimly conscious that he had brushed past the
mystery of a great character, whom, in spite of all, he had been
forced to reverence.
CHAPTER XII
THE WHITE HAND
It is an old truth that things have their true existence only in
ourselves. A picture is perfect, moderate, or indifferent, according
to our tastes; an event fortunate or unfortunate according to our
character. Thus life, though in reality no more than a pure stream of
colorless water, changes its hue the moment it is poured into the
waiting pitchers, and becomes turbid, or assumes some lovely color, or
retains its first crystal clearness, in measure that the earthenware
is of the best or poorest quality.
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