Dinner was served at a round table, and Paul found himself between Lady Angela Doon, whom he took in, and the Countess Lavretsky.  Talk was general and amusing.  As Doon did not make, and apparently did not expect anyone to make any reference to King Qa or Amenhotep or Rameses—­names vaguely floating in Paul’s brain—­but talked in a sprightly way about the French stage and the beauty of Norwegian fiords, Paul perceived that the Princess’s alleged reason for her invitation was but a shallow pretext.  Doon did not need any entertainment at all.  Lady Angela, however, spoke of her dismay at the prospect of another winter in the desert; and drew a graphic little sketch of the personal discomforts to which Egyptologists were subjected.

“I always thought Egyptologists and suchlike learned folk were stuffy and snuffy with goggles and ragged old beards,” laughed Paul.  “Your husband is a revelation.”

“Yes, he’s quite human, isn’t he?” she said with an affectionate glance across the table.  “He’s dead keen on his work, but he realizes—­as many of his stuffy and snuffy confreres don’t—­that there’s a jolly, vibrating, fascinating, modern world in which one lives.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that about the modern world,” said Paul.

“What is Lady Angela saying about the modern world?” asked the Princess, separated from Paul’s partner only by Count Lavretsky.

“Singing paeans in praise of it,” said Paul.

“What is there in it so much to rejoice at?” asked the diplomatist, in a harsh voice.  He was a man prematurely old, and looked at the world from beneath heavy, lizard-like eyelids.

“Not only is it the best world we’ve got, but it’s the best world we’ve ever had,” cried Paul.  “I don’t know any historical world which would equal the modern, and as for the prehistoric—­well, Professor Doon can tell us—­”

“As a sphere of amenable existence,” said Doon with a smile, “give me Chetwood Park and Piccadilly.”

“That is mere hedonism,” said Count Lavretsky.  “You happen, like us all here, to command the creature comforts of modern wealthy conditions, which I grant are exceedingly superior to those commanded by the great Emperors of ancient times.  But we are in a small minority.  And even if we were not—­is that all?”

“We have a finer appreciation of our individualities,” said the Princess.  “We lead a wider intellectual life.  We are in instant touch, practically, with the thought of the habitable globe.”

“And with the emotive force of mankind,” said Paul.

“What is that?” asked Lady Angela.

Why Paul, after the first glance of courtesy at the speaker, should exchange a quick glance with the Princess would be difficult to say.  It was instinctive; as instinctive as the reciprocal flash of mutual understanding.

“I think I know, but tell us,” she said.

Paul, challenged, defined it as the swift wave of sympathy that surged over the earth.  A famine in India, a devastating earthquake in Mexico, a bid for freedom on the part of an oppressed population, a deed of heroism at sea—­each was felt within practically a few moments, emotionally, in an English, French or German village.  Our hearts were throbbing continuously at the end of telegraph wires.