“Oh, I don’t know!” murmured Lord Fulkeward, stroking his downy lip.  “You see my mother’s rather an exceptional person.  When the governor was alive she hardly ever went out anywhere, you know, and all the people who came to our house in Yorkshire had to bring their pedigrees with them, so to speak.  It was beastly dull!  But now my mother has taken to ‘studying character,’ don’cher know; she likes all sorts of people about her, and the more mixed they are the more she is delighted with them.  Fact, I assure you!  Quite a change has come over my mother since the poor old governor died!”

Ross Courtney looked amused.  A change indeed had come over Lady Fulkeward—­a change, sudden, mysterious and amazing to many of her former distinguished friends with “pedigrees.”  In her husband’s lifetime her hair had been a soft silver-gray; her face pale, refined and serious; her form full and matronly; her step sober and discreet; but two years after the death of the kindly and noble old lord who had cherished her as the apple of his eye and up to the last moment of his breath had thought her the most beautiful woman in England, she appeared with golden tresses, a peach-bloom complexion, and a figure which had been so massaged, rubbed, pressed and artistically corseted as to appear positively sylph-like.  She danced like a fairy, she who had once been called “old” Lady Fulkeward; she smoked cigarettes; she laughed like a child at every trivial thing—­any joke, however stale, flat and unprofitable, was sufficient to stir her light pulses to merriment; and she flirted—­oh, heavens!—­How she flirted!—­with a skill and a grace and a knowledge and an aplomb that nearly drove Muriel and Dolly Chetwynd Lyle frantic.  They, poor things, were beaten out of the field altogether by her superior tact and art of “fence,” and they hated her accordingly and called her in private a “horrid old woman,” which perhaps, when her maid undressed her, she was.  But she was having a distinctly “good time” in Cairo; she called her son, who was in delicate health, “my poor dear little boy!” and he, though twenty-eight on his last birthday, was reduced to such an abject condition of servitude by her assertiveness, impudent gayety and general freedom of manner, that he could not open his mouth without alluding to “my mother,” and using “my mother” as a peg whereon to hang all his own opinions and emotions as well as the opinions and emotions of other people.

“Lady Fulkeward admires the Princess very much, I believe?” said another lounger who had not yet spoken.

“Oh, as to that!”—­and Lord Fulkeward roused himself to some faint show of energy.  “Who wouldn’t admire her?  By Jove!  Only, I tell you what—­there’s something I weird about her eyes.  Fact!  I don’t like her eyes.”

“Shut up, Fulke!  She has beautiful eyes!” burst out Courtney, hotly; then flushing suddenly he bit his lips and was silent.

“Who is this that has beautiful eyes?” suddenly demanded a slow, gruff voice, and a little thin gentleman, dressed in a kind of academic gown and cap, appeared on the scene.