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Such was the entrée of the Maharaja of Oneypore into London society; and for three weeks, to a day, an hour, a minute—"Hang it! To a bally second!" Charlie Thorneycroft commented—the impression which had accompanied him into the salon of Her Grace of Shropshire clung to him.

Not that people feared or mistrusted him. There was nothing personal about it, and indeed the man was kindness itself. He could not pass by beggar, by effusive, tailwagging street cur, or by mewing, rubbing, dusty, ash-bin cat, without giving what he thought was demanded of him—money or caress or soft word.

Nor was it because he was too foreign. For he improved his English rapidly, and, well-bred, a gentleman, it did not take him long to master European social customs, including the prejudices. He tried his best to become Western, in every sense of the word, and to that end he abandoned his 8