first place, you are eighteen.”

“Yes,” said Paul.

“And a man of means?”

“Pretty well.”

“You have property in Casablanca, in Morocco?”

“Yes, sir,” said Paul, wondering whither all these questions were to lead.

“And you lived there for some years?”

“Yes. Before I went to school in France and my father built his house in Aguilas.”

“You know Arabic, then?”

“The Moorish dialect, yes.”

“And by nationality you are French?”

“Yes,” answered Paul reluctantly.

“Good,” said the Colonel, warming to his theme. “Now listen to me. The French must move in Morocco, as we moved in India, as we moved in Egypt. It isn’t a question of policies or persons. It’s the question of the destiny of a great nation. The instinct of life and self-preservation in a great nation which sooner or later breaks all policies and persons that stand in the way. There’ll be the timid ones who’ll say no! And there’ll be the intriguers who’ll treat the question as a pawn to be moved in their own interest. But in the end they won’t matter.” Colonel Vanderfelt had a complete and not very knowledgeable contempt for politics and politicians like most of his calling until they have joined the ranks of the politicians themselves.

“Morocco can’t remain as it is—a vast country with a miserable population, misgoverned if governed at all, with a virgin soil the richest in the world, and within a few miles of Europe. Somebody’s got to go in and sort it up. And that some one’s got to be France, for she can’t afford a possible enemy on her Algerian frontier. Yes, but there’ll be trouble before she succeeds in her destiny, trouble and—opportunity.” The Colonel paused to 

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