“And it is even so when there is mingled blood,” he said.  “For instance, that man you saw to-night smoking hashish, wrapped up in that dirty old gibbeh, had a Greek mother, and may have—­no doubt has—­some aptitudes, some characteristics that are Greek, but they are dominated, almost swallowed up by the East that is in him.”

“Do you know him?”

“I have never spoken to him, but I have heard a great deal about him—­from Egyptians, mind you, as well as Europeans.  With the English, and foreigners generally, he is an immense success.  He is a very clever man, and has excellent qualities, I believe.  But he is of the East.  He is capable of giving one—­who does not know very much—­the most profound surprises.  To ordinary eyes he shows nothing, nothing of what he is.  He seems calm, dominating, practical, even cold and businesslike, full always of the most complete self-possession, calculating, but generous, and kind, charming, polished, suave and indifferent, with a sort of tremendously masculine indifference.  I have often seen him in society.  Even to me he has given that type of impression.”

“And what is the real man?”

“Red-hot under the crust, a tremendous hater and a simply tremendous lover.  But he hates with his soul and he loves with his body—­they say.  They say he’s the slave of his soul in hatred, the slave of his body in love.  He’s committed crimes for women, if I ever get truth from my native friends.  And I believe I am one of the few Europeans who can get a good deal of truth from the natives.”

“Crimes, you say?”

“Yes,” returned Starnworth, with his odd, negligent manner, which suggested a man who would undertake a desert journey full of tremendous hardships clad in a dressing-gown and slippers.

“But not for his own women, not for the beauties of the East.  Baroudi is one of the many Egyptians who go mad over the women of Europe and of the New World, who go mad over their fairness of skin, their delicate colouring and shining hair.  There was a dancer at the opera house here one season—­a Dane she was, all fairness, the Northern sunbeam type—­”

“I know.”

“He spent thousands upon her.  Gave her a yacht, took her off in it to the Greek islands and Naples.  Presently she wanted to marry.”

“Him?”

“A merchant of Copenhagen, a very rich man.  Baroudi was charming about it.  The merchant came out to Cairo during the dancer’s second season at the opera.  Baroudi entertained him, became his friend, talked business, impressed the Dane immensely with his practical qualities, put him up to some splendid ‘specs.’  Result—­the Dane was ruined, and went back to Copenhagen minus his fortune and—­naturally—­minus his lady-love.”

“And what became of her?”

“I forget.  Don’t think I ever knew.  She vanished from the opera house.  But the best of it is that the Dane to this day swears by Baroudi, and thinks it was his own folly that did for him.  There are much worse things than that, though.  Baroudi’s a man who would stick at absolutely nothing once he got the madness for a woman into his body.  For instance—­”