“Here’s Mr. Hill,” said Lady Claire.

Miss Falconer stirred; there was room for the fifth chair between her and Arlee.  Lady Claire also stirred; there was room between her and Robert Falconer.  And there Billy B. Hill seated himself after a general exchange of greetings.

“How were the bazaars?” said Arlee gaily across the table.

“You mean the department store of Mr. Isaac Cohen,” Billy laughed back.  “They are all under him, you know.”

“Not really!” Falconer exclaimed, in disillusionment.  “It rather takes it out, doesn’t it, to know it is so commercialized.”

“What did you expect—­it is the twentieth century,” Miss Falconer retorted, putting aside her knitting as the tea things arrived.

“Sometimes it is,” said Arlee.

“I think it’s more so than ever, here,” declared Lady Claire.  “Egypt’s so frightfully civilized——­”

“Not when you’re camping in the desert.”

Again that funny little smile flitted over Arlee’s face; not once did she glance at Billy, but for all her air of unconsciousness he felt that she was subtly sharing her thoughts with him and a quick spark of gladness flashed in him.

Those had been three horrible days for Billy B. Hill.

Friday morning he had been practically a prisoner until his trunks had arrived.  He had emerged upon a spectacle of England triumphant—­Robert Falconer escorting Arlee to the temple of Luxor.  Later that afternoon he had called upon Arlee upon the boat to find Falconer still there, and the Evershams very much so.

Robert Falconer had accompanied him back to the hotel.  There was something that he wanted to ask, and he asked it bluntly, but with embarrassment.  Had Billy said anything at all to Arlee of that nonsense at the palace?

Here was a contingency for which Billy was not provided.  He made no provisions for this with Arlee.

“Have you?” he parried.

“Not a word,” said the young Englishman.  “We’ve not mentioned the fellow’s filthy name.  But I wondered——­”

“I did tell her we got worried one night, and tried to get into his palace like a pair of brigands,” Billy answered slowly.

“She must have thought us great fools,” the sandy-haired young man replied disgustedly.  Clearly he felt that Billy had flourished this story before Arlee to appear romantic, and he winced at its absurdity.

“Oh, no—­she just thought of it as a lark on our part,” Billy went on.  “I didn’t let her in for the horrible details—­I don’t think she’s likely to mention it to you.  Or you to her,” he added.

“Rather not.”  The young Englishman was emphatic.  “I’m sorry you said anything about it.”  Then he looked at Billy, a crinkle of amusement in his eyes.  “Rather a sell, you know—­what?”

“I should say so!” returned Billy, with a hearty appearance of chagrin, and a laugh cemented the understanding.