''
``I think you are a perfect angel.'' said the Duke.
The Angel-that-had-been-Quinston smiled and passed on his way,
pursued across the breadth of the Horse Guards Parade by a tiresome
little sparrow that cheeped incessantly and furiously at him.
``That's only the beginning,'' said the Duke complacently; ``I've
made it operative with all of them, irrespective of parties.''
Belturbet made no coherent reply; he was engaged in feeling
his pulse. The Duke fixed his attention with some interest on a
black swan that was swimming with haughty, stiff-necked aloofness
amid the crowd of lesser water-fowl that dotted the ornamental
water. For all its pride of bearing, something was evidently ruffling
and enraging it; in its way it seemed as angry and amazed as the
sparrow had been.
At the same moment a human figure came along the pathway.
Belturbet looked up apprehensively.
``Kedzon,'' he whispered briefly.
``An Angel-Kedzon, if I am not mistaken,'' said the Duke. ``Look,
he is talking affably to a human being. That settles it.''
A shabbily dressed lounger had accosted the man who had been
Viceroy in the splendid East, and who still reflected in his mien
some of the cold dignity of the Himalayan snow-peaks.
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