There was Lizette, who had wept a little, and for a little while had bemoaned her lot, and who, later, had gone, as was her wont, to the Franciscan Church, and had said her beads and had prayed that one day she might meet again the mighty man who had sent the pig Barthampton so beautifully sprawling upon the floor.
There was Lord Blair, who had received an effusive reply from the gratified Minister of War, and, thereat, had schemed and plotted to bring the wise Daniel within closer reach of the Residency. There was Rupert Helsingham, who, ever since the ride to Mena House, had been filled with matrimonial dreams and fears of rivalry, and had racked his brains to decide upon a course of action which should give him opportunities of displaying those brutal tendencies of manhood which seemed to be so successful with the opposite sex.
And lastly, there was Muriel, who had aroused Rupert’s jealousy by talking from time to time about Daniel, with a sort of defiance in her voice which could almost be mistaken for awe.
It was inevitable that she and Charles Barthampton should meet: it was only strange that they had not met before in London. On the same evening upon which Daniel had arrived at his home in El Hamrân, his cousin was a guest at dinner at the Residency, where he found himself seated next to Muriel. The latter had been taken into dinner by one of the Egyptian princes, an elegant personage who had lived most of his life in Vienna, Paris, and Monte Carlo, and whose contempt for the English was only equalled by his scorn of the Egyptians. He was an authority on modern French art; and when Muriel, in a frenzy of tact, had rushed the conversation again and again into that province, and had exhausted all that she knew by rote upon the subject, she was glad of an opportunity to turn in the opposite direction and address herself to Barthampton.
He, on his part, had taken in the daughter of the French Consul-General, who was much more interested in Rupert Helsingham upon her other hand; and, being thus left alone to play with his toast and sip his wine, he had turned to Muriel with relief.
“I can’t talk to this French girl,” he whispered. “She doesn’t understand English, and my French isn’t exactly ladylike.”
“Well, do you know anything about French art?” she asked, hopefully. “I’m sitting next to a connoisseur, and I’ve run dry.”
“French art?” he laughed. “Rather! I’ve got a collection of postcards—I’ve framed some of them; and I take La Vie Parisienne regularly.”
Muriel sighed. “No, I’m afraid that won’t help,” she said.
“Well, try him on English art,” he suggested. “Good stuff, you know—Landseer and Leighton and Alma-Tadema.”