up for the occasion in more or less baggy tweeds, people were fond of remarking that the only man who ever succeeded in making tweeds look artistic was Armand Gervase.  And in the white Bedouin garb he now wore he was seen at his best; a certain restless passion betrayed in eyes and lips made him look the savage part he had “dressed” for, and as he bent his head over the Princess Ziska’s hand and kissed it with an odd mingling of flippancy and reverence, Denzil suddenly began to think how curiously alike they were, these two!  Strong man and fair woman, both had many physical points in common,—­the same dark, level brows,—­the same half wild, half tender eyes,—­the same sinuous grace of form,—­the same peculiar lightness of movement,—­and yet both were different, while resembling each other.  It was not what is called a “family likeness” which existed between them; it was the cast of countenance or “type” that exists between races or tribes, and had young Murray not known his friend Gervase to be a French Provencal and equally understood the Princess Ziska to be of Russian origin, he would have declared them both, natives of Egypt, of the purest caste and highest breeding.  He was so struck by this idea that he might have spoken his thought aloud had he not heard Gervase boldly arranging dance after dance with the Princess, and apparently preparing to write no name but hers down the entire length of his ball programme,—­a piece of audacity which had the effect of rousing Denzil to assert his own rights.

“You promised me the first waltz, Princess,” he said, his face flushing as he spoke.

“Quite true!  And you shall have it,” she replied, smiling.  “Monsieur Gervase will have the second.  The music sounds very inviting; shall we not go in?”

“We spoil the effect of your entree crowding about you like this,” said Denzil, glancing somewhat sullenly at Gervase and the other men surrounding her; “and, by the way, you have never told us what character you represent to-night; some great queen of old time, no doubt?”

“No, I lay no claim to sovereignty,” she answered; “I am for to-night the living picture of a once famous and very improper person who bore half my name, a dancer of old time, known as ’Ziska-Charmazel,’ the favorite of the harem of a great Egyptian warrior, described in forgotten histories as ‘The Mighty Araxes.’”

She paused; her admirers, fascinated by the sound of her voice, were all silent.  She fixed her eyes upon Gervase; and addressing him only, continued: 

“Yes, I am ‘Charmazel,’” she said.  “She was, as I tell you, an ‘improper’ person, or would be so considered by the good English people.  Because, you know, she was never married to Araxes!”

This explanation, given with the demurest naivete, caused a laugh among her listeners.

“That wouldn’t make her ‘improper’ in France,” said Gervase gayly.  “She would only seem more interesting.”