“Ah, by-the-bye, I wanted to ask you about that lady.  Does anyone know who she is?  My wife is very anxious to find out whether she is—­well—­er—­quite the proper person, you know!  When one has young girls, one cannot be too careful.”

Ross Courtney, the man on the divan, got up slowly and stretched his long athletic limbs with a lazy enjoyment in the action.  He was a sporting person with unhampered means and large estates in Scotland and Ireland; he lived a joyous, “don’t-care” life of wandering about the world in search of adventures, and he had a scorn of civilized conventionalities—­newspapers and their editors among them.  And whenever Sir Chetwynd spoke of his “young girls” he was moved to irreverent smiling, as he knew the youngest of the twain was at least thirty.  He also recognized and avoided the wily traps and pitfalls set for him by Lady Chetwynd Lyle in the hope that he would yield himself up a captive to the charms of Muriel or Dolly; and as he thought of these two fair ones now and involuntarily compared them in his mind with the other woman just spoken of, the smile that had begun to hover on his lips deepened unconsciously till his handsome face was quite illumined with its mirth.

“Upon my word, I don’t think it matters who anybody is in Cairo!” he said with a fine carelessness.  “The people whose families are all guaranteed respectable are more lax in their behavior than the people one knows nothing about.  As for the Princess Ziska, her extraordinary beauty and intelligence would give her the entree anywhere—­even if she hadn’t money to back those qualities up.”

“She’s enormously wealthy, I hear,” said young Lord Fulkeward, another of the languid smokers, caressing his scarcely perceptible moustache.  “My mother thinks she is a divorcee.”

Sir Chetwynd looked very serious, and shook his fat head solemnly.

“Well, there is nothing remarkable in being divorced, you know,” laughed Ross Courtney.  “Nowadays it seems the natural and fitting end of marriage.”

Sir Chetwynd looked graver still.  He refused to be drawn into this kind of flippant conversation.  He, at any rate, was respectably married; he had no sympathy whatever with the larger majority of people whose marriages were a failure.

“There is no Prince Ziska then?” he inquired.  “The name sounds to me of Russian origin, and I imagined—­my wife also imagined,—­that the husband of the lady might very easily be in Russia while his wife’s health might necessitate her wintering in Egypt.  The Russian winter climate is inclement, I believe.”

“That would be a very neat arrangement,” yawned Lord Fulkeward.  “But my mother thinks not.  My mother thinks there is not a husband at all,—­that there never was a husband.  In fact my mother has very strong convictions on the subject.  But my mother intends to visit her all the same.”

“She does?  Lady Fulkeward has decided on that?  Oh, well, in that case!”—­and Sir Chetwynd expanded his lower-chest air-balloon.  “Of course, Lady Chetwynd Lyle can no longer have any scruples on the subject.  If Lady Fulkeward visits the Princess there can be no doubt as to her actual status.”