'Let him come with me now, immediately,' said the little Maharajah;
'he has a face of gold.'

The Maharajah sat down, not in his chair--he did not greatly like
sitting in his chair--but on the carpet.

'Whence do you come?' said he to Tooni.

'Protector of the poor, from Rubbulgurh.'

'Where your Highness sent to for us,' added Sonny Sahib. 'Tooni,
why do you pinch me?'

His Highness looked disconcerted for a moment. As a matter of fact
he had known all that Tooni or Sonny Sahib could tell him about
themselves for three years, but he considered it more dignified to
appear as if he knew nothing.

'This is a child of the mlechas,' said the Maharajah, which was not
a very polite way of saying that he was English.

'Protector of the poor, yes.'

'Account to me for him. How old is he?'

'Seven years, great King.'

'And two months, Tooni-ji. Your Highness, may I sit down?'

'As old as the Folly.'[1]