The Villa Khismet was one of the surprises of Nepenthe.  It lay somewhat out of the way, at the end of a narrow, gloomy and tortuous lane.  Who would have dreamt of finding a house of this kind in such a situation?  Who would have expected, on passing through that mouldy wooden gateway in the wall, to find himself in a courtyard that recalled the exquisite proportions and traceries of the Alhambra—­to be able to wander thence under fretted arches through a maze of marble-paved Moorish chambers, great and small, opening upon each other at irregular angles with a deliciously impromptu effect?  The palace had been built regardless of expense.  It was originally laid out, Keith explained, by one of the old rulers of Nepenthe who, to tease his faithful subjects, simulated a frenzied devotion for the poetry and architecture of the Saracens, their bitterest enemies.

Something Oriental still hung about these chambers, though the modern furniture was not at all in keeping with the style.  Mr. Keith did not profess to be a man of taste.  “I try to be comfortable,” he used to say.  He succeeded in being luxurious.

They glanced into the garden—­a spacious park-like enclosure terminating in a declivity, so as to afford a view over the sea far below.  It was a mock wilderness of trees and bright blossoms, flooded in meridian sunlight.  Some gardeners moved about, binding up the riotous vegetation that had sprouted overnight under the moist breath of the sirocco.

“It’s too hot to think of lunching out here,” said Keith.  “You should come and see this place in the evening.”

“It must be wonderful at that hour.”

“Still more wonderful in the early morning, or by moonlight.  But then I am generally alone.  There are twenty-four fountains in this garden,” he added.  “They might help to keep the place cool.  But of course not one of them is in use now.  You have observed, have you not, that there is no running water on this island?  That old Duke built the fountains all the same, and to every one of them he attached a cistern, to hold the winter rains; then a pumping apparatus.  Relays of slaves had to work underground, day and night, pumping water for these twenty-four fountains; it fell back into the cisterns, and was forced up again.  The Arabs had fountains.  He meant to have them too.  Particularly at night!  If anything went wrong with the machinery at that hour, there was the devil to pay.  He swore he could not sleep unless he heard the music of the water.  And his sleepless nights were bad for his subjects.  They generally hid in caves till the fountains were reported to be in working order again.  That is the way to run an island, Mr. Heard.  One must be a stylist.”

“You might re-activate one of them, at least, with the help of those servants.”

“They have enough to do, I assure you, to re-activate me—­keep me young and in good condition.  To say nothing of the flowers, which also need a little friendly attention. . . .”