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straight again. You
must tell us all your news at luncheon. I hear Mrs Schonbaum’s mare is in foal.
I’ll be interested to see how she does. We’ve never had any luck breeding. I
don’t believe the native syces understand blood-stock.’
     
     
    At the French Legation,
also, news of Seth’s victory had arrived. ‘Ah,’ said M. Ballon, ‘so the English
and the Italians have triumphed. But the game is not over yet. Old Ballon is
not outwitted yet. There is a trick or two still to be won. Sir Samson must
look to his laurels.’
    While
at that moment the Envoy was saying: ‘Of course, it’s all a question of the
altitude. I’ve not heard of anyone growing asparagus up here but I can’t see
why it shouldn’t do. We get the most delicious green peas.’

 
     
     
    Chapter Three
     
    Two days later news of the
battle of Ukaka was published in Europe. It made very little impression on the
million or so Londoners who glanced down the columns of their papers that
evening.
    ‘Any
news in the paper tonight, dear?’
    ‘No,
dear, nothing of interest.’
     
     
    ‘Azania?
That’s part of Africa, ain’t it?’
    ‘Ask Lil,
she was at school last.’
    ‘Lil,
where’s Azania?’
    ‘I
don’t know, father.’
    ‘What
do they teach you at school, I’d like to know.’
     
     
    ‘Only
niggers.’
     
     
    ‘It
came in a cross-word quite lately. Independent native principality. You
would have it it was Turkey.’
     
     
    ‘Azania?
It sounds like a Cunarder to me.’
    ‘But,
my dear, surely you remember that madly attractive blackamoor at
Balliol.’
     
     
    ‘Run up
and see if you can find the atlas, deary …Yes, where it always is,
behind the stand in father’s study.’
     
     
    ‘Things
look quieter in East Africa. That Azanian business cleared up at last.’
     
     
    ‘Care
to see the evening paper? There’s nothing in it.’
     
     
    In Fleet Street, in the
offices of the daily papers: ‘Randall, there might be a story in the Azanian
cable. The new bloke was at Oxford. See what there is to it.’
    Mr
Randall typed: His Majesty B.A…. ex-undergrad among the cannibals … scholar emperor’s desperate bid for throne … barbaric splendour … conquering hordes … ivory …. elephants … east
meets west …
     
     
    ‘Sanders.
Kill that Azanian story in the London edition.’
     
     
    ‘Anything
in the paper this morning?’
    ‘No,
dear, nothing of interest.’
     
     
    Late in the afternoon
Basil Seal read the news on the Imperial and Foreign page of The Times as
he stopped at his club on the way to Lady Metroland’s to cash a bad cheque.
    For the
last four days Basil had been on a racket. He had woken up an hour ago on the
sofa of a totally strange flat. There was a gramophone playing. A lady in a
dressing jacket sat in an armchair by the gas-fire, eating sardines from the
tin with a shoe-horn. An unknown man in shirtsleeves was shaving, the glass
propped on the chimneypiece.
    The man
had said: ‘Now you’re awake you’d better go. ‘The woman: ‘Quite thought you
were dead.’
    Basil: ‘I
can’t think why I’m here.’
    ‘ I can’t think why you don’t go.’
    ‘Isn’t
London hell?’
    ‘Did I
have a hat?’
    ‘That’s
what caused half the trouble.’
    ‘What
trouble?’
    ‘Oh,
why don’t you go?’
    So
Basil had gone down the stairs, which were covered in worn linoleum, and
emerged through the side door of a shop into a busy street which proved to be
King’s Road, Chelsea.
    Incidents
of this kind constantly occurred when Basil was on a racket.
    At the
club he found a very old member sitting before the fire with tea and hot
muffins. He opened The Times and sat on the leather-topped fender.
    ‘You
see the news from Azania?’
    The
elderly member was startled by the suddenness of his address. ‘No … no … I
am afraid I can’t really say that I have.’
    ‘Seth
has won the war.’
    ‘Indeed
… well, to tell you the truth I haven’t been following the affair