“The Princess Ziska,” said Lord Fulkeward.  “I was saying that I don’t quite like the look of her eyes.”

“Why not?  Why not?” demanded the doctor with sudden asperity.  “What’s the matter with them?”

“Everything’s the matter with them!” replied Ross Courtney with a forced laugh.  “They are too splendid and wild for Fulke; he likes the English pale-blue better than the Egyptian gazelle-black.”

“No, I don’t,” said Lord Fulkeward, speaking more animatedly than was customary with him.  “I hate, pale-blue eyes.  I prefer soft violet-gray ones, like Miss Murray’s.”

“Miss Helen Murray is a very charming young lady,” said Dr. Dean.  “But her beauty is quite of an ordinary type, while that of the Princess Ziska—­”

“Is Extra-ordinary—­exactly!  That’s just what I say!” declared Courtney.  “I think she is the loveliest woman I have ever seen.”

There was a pause, during which the little doctor looked with a ferret-like curiosity from one man to the other.  Sir Chetwynd Lyle rose ponderously up from the depths of his arm-chair.

“I think,” said he, “I had better go and get into my uniform—­the Windsor, you know!  I always have it with me wherever I go; it comes in very useful for fancy balls such as the one we are going to have tonight, when no particular period is observed in costume.  Isn’t it about time we all got ready?”

“Upon my life, I think it is!” agreed Lord Fulkeward.  “I am coming out as a Neapolitan fisherman!  I don’t believe Neapolitan fishermen ever really dress in the way I’m going to make up, but it’s the accepted stage-type, don’cher know.”

“Ah!  I daresay you will look very well in it,” murmured Ross Courtney, vaguely.  “Hullo! here comes Denzil Murray!”

They all turned instinctively to watch the entrance of a handsome young man, attired in the picturesque garb worn by Florentine nobles during the prosperous reign of the Medicis.  It was a costume admirably adapted to the wearer, who, being grave and almost stern of feature, needed the brightness of jewels and the gloss of velvet and satin to throw out the classic contour of his fine head and enhance the lustre of his brooding, darkly-passionate eyes.  Denzil Murray was a pure-blooded Highlander,—­the level brows, the firm lips, the straight, fearless look, all bespoke him a son of the heather-crowned mountains and a descendant of the proud races that scorned the “Sassenach,” and retained sufficient of the material whereof their early Phoenician ancestors were made to be capable of both the extremes of hate and love in their most potent forms.  He moved slowly towards the group of men awaiting his approach with a reserved air of something like hauteur; it was possible he was conscious of his good looks, but it was equally evident that he did not desire to be made the object of impertinent remark.  His friends silently recognized this, and only Lord Fulkeward, moved to a mild transport of admiration, ventured to comment on his appearance.