Moving towards him at a stately pace came a stout, superbly dressed coal-black gentleman leading a white Afghan hound with a scarlet collar and leash.

“My dear Ambassador!” Mr. Whipplestone exclaimed. “How very pleasant!”

“Mr. Whipplestone!” resonated the Ambassador for Ng’ombwana. “I am delighted to see you. You live in these parts?”

“No, no: a morning stroll. I’m — I’m a free man now, Your Excellency.”

“Of course. I had heard. You will be greatly missed.”

“I doubt it. Your Embassy — I had forgotten for the moment — is quite close by, isn’t it?”

“In Palace Park Gardens. I too enjoy a morning stroll with Ahman. We are not, alas, unattended.” He waved his gold-mounted stick in the direction of a large person looking anonymously at a plane tree.

“Alas!” Mr. Whipplestone agreed. “The penalty of distinction,” he added, neatly, and patted the Afghan.

“You are kind enough to say so.”

Mr. Whipplestone’s highly specialized work in the Foreign Service had been advanced by a happy manner with foreign — and particularly with African — plenipotentiaries. “I hope I may congratulate Your Excellency,” he said and broke into his professional style of verbless exclamation.

“The increased rapproachement! The treaty! Masterly achievements!”

“Achievements — entirely — of our great President, Mr. Whipplestone.”

“Indeed, yes. Everyone is delighted about the forthcoming visit. An auspicious occasion.”

“As you say. Immensely significant.” The Ambassador waited for a moment and then slightly reduced the volume of his superb voice. “Not,” he said, “without its anxieties, however. As you know, our great President does not welcome”—he again waved his stick at his bodyguard—“that sort of attention.” A sigh escaped him. “He is to stay with us,” he said.

“Quite.”