“No,” said Muriel gravely, “he’s very modern.”
“Oh, modern, is he? Then what about Kirchner? Or Cecil Aldin?—but I don’t suppose he knows a fox from a hound.” He leaned forward and stared at the Prince. “Queer little devil, isn’t he, what? Doesn’t look much like a nigger.”
“Why should he?” Muriel asked. “The Royal house is Albanian—pure Turkish.”
“Oh, I lump them all together,” he answered, with a gesture of his red hand. “Quaint country, Egypt, isn’t it? What d’you think of it?”
“So far, I like it immensely,” she replied. “But I shouldn’t think it was an interesting place for a soldier. What do your men think of it?”
“I don’t know: I’ve never asked ’em,” he replied. “Not much, I shouldn’t think. There are not enough housemaids to go round, and the beer’s atrocious. I can’t think why we’re not kept in London; after all, we’re the Guards. They ought to leave the dirty work to the ordinary regiments of the line. I don’t see why we should be made to sweat out here. It’s these Radicals: they never can mind their own business.”
“Father and I are Radicals, you know,” she smiled. “And our forebears were Whigs before us.”
“Beg pardon,” he said, with a grunt. “I’d forgotten my history lessons. We Lanes were always Tories.”
Muriel glanced at him quickly. “Oh, I’d quite forgotten,” she said, with interest. “Of course, you’re a Lane. I wonder if you’re any relation to a certain Daniel Lane?”
Lord Barthampton’s face fell. “How d’you come to know Daniel Lane?” he asked, as he busied himself with his food.