“Sheer monotony,” repeated the Count.  “And it is the same with their pictorial art.  We blame the Orientals for their chill cult of geometric designs, their purely stylistic decoration, their endless repetitions, as opposed to our variety and love of floral, human, or other naturalistic motives.  But by this simple means they attain their end—­a direct appeal.  Their art, like their music, goes straight to the senses; it is not deflected or disturbed by any intervening medium.  Colour plays its part; the sombre, throbbing sounds of these instruments—­the glowing tints of their carpets and tapestries.  Talking of gipsies, do you know whether our friend van Koppen has arrived?”

“Koppen?  A very up-to-date nomad, who takes the whole world for his camping-ground.  No, not yet.  But he’ll turn up in a day or two.”

Count Caloveglia was concerned, just then, about Mr. van Koppen.  He had a little business to transact with him—­he fervently hoped that the millionaire would not forgo his annual visit to Nepenthe.

“I shall be glad to meet him again,” he remarked carelessly.  Then looking up he saw Denis, who moved under the trees alone.  Observing that he seemed rather disconsolate, he walked up to him and said in a fatherly tone:  “Will you confer a favour, Mr. Denis, on an old man who lives much alone?  Will you come and see me, as you promised?  My daughter is away just now and will not be back till midsummer.  I wish you could have met her.  Meanwhile, I am a little solitary.  I have also a few antiquities that might interest you.”

While Denis, slightly embarrassed, was uttering some appropriate words, the bishop suddenly asked: 

“Where is Mrs. Meadows?  Wasn’t she coming down to-night?”

“Of course she was,” said Keith.  “Isn’t she here?  What can this mean?  Your cousin is a particular friend of mine, Heard, though I have not seen her for the last six days or so.  Something must be wrong.  That baby, I expect.”

“I missed her once already,” said Heard.  “I’ll write and make an appointment, or go up again.  By the way, Count—­you remember our conversation?  Wel, I have thought of an insuperable objection to your Mediterranean theory.  The sirocco.  You will never change the sirocco.  The Elect of the Earth will never endure it all their lives.”

“I think we can change the sirocco,” replied the Count, meditatively.  “We can tame it, at all events.  I do not know much about its history; you must ask Mr. Eames—­”

“Who is at home,” interrupted Keith, “closeted with his Perrelli.”

“What has been, may be,” continued the old man, oracularly.  “I question whether the sirocco was as obnoxious in olden days as now, otherwise the ancients, who had absurdly sensitive skins, would have complained of it more frequently.  The deforestation of Northern Africa, I suspect, has much to do with it.  Frenchmen are now trying to revive those prosperous conditions which Mohammedanism has destroyed.  Oh, yes!  I don’t despair of muzzling the sirocco, even as we are muzzling that often Mediterranean pest, the malaria.”