I could not detach the events from the individual.

His face was ever before me, whether I thought of Miss Westonhaugh, or of the wretched old maharajah, or of Ram Lal the Buddhist.

Isaacs was the central figure in every picture, always in the front, always calm and beautiful, always controlling the events around him.

Then I entered on a series of trite reflections to soothe my baffled reason, as a man will who is used to understanding what goes on before him and suddenly finds himself at a loss.

Of course, I said to myself, it is no wonder he controls things, or appears to.