Now, the finding of flowers upon your table does not, in Egypt, necessarily imply that the donor thereof is a son of the desert; the maitre d’hotel has been known to do it out of deference to your rank or purse; and only once had Jane Coop had the mixed pleasure of meeting the deaf-mute Nubian who daily left the posies at the hotel.

Refreshed from her siesta, she had descended to the hall via the stairs instead of the lift, and bumped into the ebony-hued slave as he bent to lay a sheaf of flowers upon the matting outside her mistress’s door.

He had straightened himself and salaamed almost to the ground—­which had delighted Jane Coop—­and had offered the bunch to her.

“Oh, no, my man!” she had said, bridling, “you don’t come over me that way.  Just you take that trash back to where it came from.  My young lady ain’t that kind,” and had shaken her fist in his face and flounced downstairs to lay a complaint.

What with the militant maids, the parrot and the dog, the ducal party was continually breaking out in some direction or another, but the maitre d’hotel, who simply worshipped the old lady, merely smiled and poured the oil of soothing words upon the troubled waters.

The girl had quite casually recounted the fight in the bazaar, and the wise old woman had made no comment; but, all the same, next day she indifferently asked a few questions of Lady Thistleton, who had a big heart, narrow mind, an ever-wagging tongue and two daughters.

“Oh, that’s the son of the Arab and the English girl.  You must remember the fuse there was in England over the runaway marriage—­what was her name?—­how she could, you know——­”

“Ah! yes.  You must be talking of Jill Carden.  I knew her very well.  Naughty girl, she refused the invitation I sent them asking them to come to England and stay with me, and gave up writing to me after a while.  Does she live in Cairo?”

It seemed that Jill, the wife of the Sheikh el-Umbar, lived in the Flat Oasis t’other side of the Canal, in Arabia proper, but, according to current gossip, was at the moment upon a visit to her son at the House ’an Mahabbha, which had been built for the elder branch of the House el-Umbar on a verdant patch watered by the springs, from the limestone hills which stretch on the desert side of the Oasis of Khargegh.

“He’s not in Cairo, then?”

“No; he left to-day,” replied the gossip.  “You see, his mother is expected any time at his home, if she isn’t already there.  My maid will chatter so, there’s absolutely no stopping her.  Funnily enough, I arrived at the station as he was leaving in a special train.  Such a handsome man, educated in England, millionaire too.  Of course it’s a case of a touch of the tarbrush—­such a pity, too!”

The duchess suddenly shivered.

“Little Jill!” she said gently.  “Little Jill!  I must go and see her if she will let me.  Ah!  General, what about a hand at ecarte before dinner?”—­and she rose with a stormy rustling of her softly-scented silks, leaving the gossip wondering in what way she had put her foot in it.