“My word,” he said.  Then he got up abruptly and stalked out of the room.  Britt laughed immoderately.

“He’s a lucky dog,” reflected the Enemy.  “You see, he loves her, Britt—­he loves little Miss Pelham.  Do you know what that means?  It means everything is worth while.  Hello!  Here he is back!  Come in, Saunders.  Here’s your lemo!”

Saunders was excited.  He stopped in the doorway, but looked over his shoulder into the street.

“Come along,” he exclaimed.  “They’re going up to the chateau—­the Princess and her party.  My word, she’s ripping!” He was off again, followed more leisurely by the two Americans.

At the corner they stopped to await the procession of palanquins and jinrikshas, which had started from the pier.  The smart English victoria from the chateau, drawn by Wyckholme’s thoroughbreds, was coming on in advance of the foot brigade.  Half a dozen officers from the yacht, as many men in civilian flannels, and a small army of servants were being borne in the palanquins.  In the rear seat of the victoria sat Lady Deppingham and one who evidently was the Princess.  Opposite to them sat two older but no less smart-looking women.

Britt and the Enemy moved over to the open space in front of the mosque.  They stood at the edge of and apart from the crowd of curious Moslems, who had moved up in advance of the procession.

“A gala day in Aratat,” observed the stubby Mr. Britt.  “We are to have the whole party over night up at the chateau.  Perhaps the advent of strangers may heal the new breach between Mrs. Browne and Lady Deppingham.  They haven’t been on speaking terms since day before yesterday.  Did Miss Pelham tell you about it?  Well, it seems that Mrs. Browne thinks that Lady Agnes is carrying on a flirtation with Browne—­Hello!  By thunder, old man, she’s—­she’s speaking to you!” He turned in astonishment to look at his companion’s face.

The Enemy was staring, transfixed, at the young woman in white who sat beside Lady Deppingham.  He seemed paralysed for the moment.  Then his helmet came off with a rush; a dazed smile of recognition lighted his face.  The very pretty young woman in the wide hat was leaning forward and smiling at him, a startled, uncertain look in her eyes.  Lady Deppingham was glancing open-mouthed from one to the other.  The Enemy stood there in the sun, bareheaded, dazed, unbelieving, while the carriage whirled past and up the street.  Both women turned to look back at him as they rounded the corner into the avenue; both were smiling.

“I must be dreaming,” murmured the Enemy.

Britt took him by the arm.  “Do you know her?” he asked.  The Enemy turned upon him with a radiant gleam in his once sombre disconsolate eyes.

“Do you think I’d be grinning at her like a damned fool if I didn’t?  Why the dickens didn’t you tell me that it was the Princess Genevra of Rapp-Thorberg who was coming?”

“Never thought of it.  I didn’t know you were interested in princesses, Chase.”