Well, it was a most agreeable dinner so far as I was concerned, for I sat between my hostess and Mrs. Scroope and the rest were too far off for conversation.  Moreover as Archibald developed an unexpected quantity of small talk, and Scroope on the other side amused himself by filling pink-bow Miss Smith’s innocent mind with preposterous stories about Africa, as had happened to me once before at this table, Lady Ragnall and I were practically left undisturbed.

“Isn’t it strange that we should find ourselves sitting here again after all these years, except that you are in my poor mother’s place?  Oh! when that scientific gentleman convinced me the other day that you whom I had heard were dead, were not only alive and well but actually in England, really I could have embraced him.”

I thought of an answer but did not make it, though as usual she read my mind for I saw her smile.

“The truth is,” she went on, “I am an only child and really have no friends, though of course being—­well, you know,” and she glanced at the jewels on her breast, “I have plenty of acquaintances.”

“And suitors,” I suggested.

“Yes,” she replied blushing, “as many as Penelope, not one of whom cares twopence about me any more than I care for them.  The truth is, Mr. Quatermain, that nobody and nothing interest me, except a spot in the churchyard yonder and another amid ruins in Egypt.”

“You have had sad bereavements,” I said looking the other way.

“Very sad and they have left life empty.  Still I should not complain for I have had my share of good.  Also it isn’t true to say that nothing interests me.  Egypt interests me, though after what has happened I do not feel as though I could return there.  All Africa interests me and,” she added dropping her voice, “I can say it because I know you will not misunderstand, you interest me, as you have always done since the first moment I saw you.”

“I!” I exclaimed, staring at my own reflection in a silver plate which made me look—­well, more unattractive than usual.  “It’s very kind of you to say so, but I can’t understand why I should.  You have seen very little of me, Lady Ragnall, except in that long journey across the desert when we did not talk much, since you were otherwise engaged.”

“I know.  That’s the odd part of it, for I feel as though I had seen you for years and years and knew everything about you that one human being can know of another.  Of course, too, I do know a good lot of your life through George and Harut.”

“Harut was a great liar,” I said uneasily.

“Was he?  I always thought him painfully truthful, though how he got at the truth I do not know.  Anyhow,” she added with meaning, “don’t suppose I think the worse of you because others have thought so well.  Women who seem to be all different, generally, I notice, have this in common.  If one or two of them like a man, the rest like him also because something in him appeals to the universal feminine instinct, and the same applies to their dislike.  Now men, I think, are different in that respect.”