“No—­it was not of a significance,” she repeated, with a ghost of a little smile.  “It was from the Evershams.”

“Ah!  Their condolences, I think?...  And is it that they still make the Nile trip?”

“Yes....  They went this morning.”  She spoke hesitantly, averse to having this eager-eyed young host perceive how truly deserted she was.  “They expect me to take the express train later and join them.”

“It is only a night’s ride to Assouan.”  He spoke soothingly.  “But you are not eating, Miss Beecher.  I recommend this consomme.”

It was worth the recommending.  Miss Beecher spooned it slowly, then demanded, “Why was I not called when the doctor came?”

“But he does not come!  Perhaps he is afraid”—­the young man’s brows and shoulders rose expressively—­“but certainly he does not risk himself.  If a servant is ill we are to tell a soldier and the sick one will be taken away to the house of plague—­bien simple.  It is so hard that I am helpless for you,” he said, with sympathetic concern, then added, with an air of boyish confession, “although I do not deny that it is happiness for me to see you here.”

The look in his eyes forced itself upon her.  And the secret sense of discomfort intruded like a third presence at the little table.

In a clear voice of dry indifference:  “That’s very polite of you,” she remarked, “but I imagine you are pretty furious, too, to be kept pent up in somebody else’s house like this.”

“But this is not somebody else’s house,” he smiled, his eyes observant of her quick glance and look of confusion.  “I am chez moi.”

“Oh!  I thought—­I was visiting your sister.”

“My sister lives with me.  She is a widow—­and we are both alone.”

“She does not seem to care for company.”

“She is indisposed.  She regrets it exceedingly.”  The young man looked grave and solicitous.  “But I trust your comfort is not being neglected?”

“Oh, my comfort is being beautifully attended to, thank you, but my patience is wearing itself out!” Arlee spoke with a blithe assumption of humor.

“I wish that I could extend the resources of my palace for you.”

“You must tell me about the palace.  I shall want to picture it to my friends when I tell them about it.  It’s very old, isn’t it?  It must have seen a great deal of life.”

“Ah, yes, it has seen life—­and what life! Quelle vie!” A flash of real enthusiasm dispelled the suave indolence of his handsome features.

“Have you seen those old rooms?  Those rooms that were built by the Mamelukes?  There is nothing now in Cairo like them.”

“I thought them very beautiful,” said the girl.  “Tell me about those Mamelukes who lived here.”

“They were men,” he said with pride, his eyes kindling, “men who lived as kings dare not live to-day!” The subject of those old days and those old ancestors of his was evidently dear to the young modern, and he launched into an animated sketch of those times, trying to picture for Arlee something of the glowing pageant of the past.  And as she listened she found her own high spirit stirring in sympathy with the barbaric strength of those old nobles, riding to battle on their fiery Arab steeds, waging their private wars, brooking no affront, no command, working no other man’s will.