"Of course, chuck 'em overboard—or hand 'em to me, and I'll do it," said Sir Marcus, looking ready to cry. "But—they're lotuses, I suppose you know? I heard you say you'd give anything to have some."
"Not artificial ones," explained Cleopatra, belle dame sans merci. "I can't stand artificial flowers even on hats, much less in rooms. Who could have put such horrors all over my salon?"
"I don't know," Sir Marcus lied stoutly; "but it shan't happen again. There ain't any real lotuses to be got, so maybe the—er—the decorator—" his meanderings died into silence, as he took the bunch of flowers from Mrs. East, and viciously flung them as tribute to the Nile.
"After all, we oughtn't to do that," said Cleopatra. "In the beautiful old days real lotuses were given to the Nile. These are an insult."
"They aren't meant as such," the big man apologized, all joy in his fine boat and the compliments he had received crushed out of him. I knew now that he had hovered at Cleopatra's door hoping for a cry of pleasure. Probably he had ransacked Cairo for the lotuses, or telegraphed to Paris, before his cruel lady went from him into the desert. I was sorry for the "boss," though a snub or two would be good for him, no doubt, and perhaps were being specially provided by a wise Providence. But I had other things to think of than Sir Marcus Lark's love-troubles: Monny, for instance, who at last had found a letter from "Madame Wretched" in Cairo, and had wonderful schemes in her head. On board the Laconia I should have thought such schemes obstinate and headstrong, the wish of a spoiled child to do something dangerous, to meddle in matters which did not concern her, and to have "an adventure." But I understood the Gilded Rose a little better now. I began to see the real Monny as Biddy saw her, bright with the flame of courage and enthusiasm and passionate generosity, behind the passing cloud of superficial faults. She wanted everybody to be as fortunate and happy as she, and was prepared to be exceedingly trying and disagreeable in the effort to make them so.
We had not been on board ten minutes when Biddy told me about the exciting letter, and escorted me to find it and Monny. Miss Gilder was in the act of insisting that General and Mrs. Harlow should accept her suite, and that she should take their cabin. The matter had to be argued out before she could spare attention for anything else; but as she made it clear that the Harlows were not to pay extra, their scruples were soon conquered. "The baggage hasn't been put into the cabins yet," she explained breathlessly to me, "so that's all right!"
In my astonishment, I forgot Madame Wretched. "But why," I adjured Monny in my professional tone, as conductor, "why on earth should you sacrifice yourself to these people? What have they done for you? I thought you didn't like them?"
"I don't," she replied, calmly, while Biddy listened, smiling. "That's why I gave them my suite—at least, it's partly why."
"I should think the other part of the 'partly' is more convincing," I remarked; and Monny blushed.
"Perhaps you know that your friend Antoun Effendi thinks me the most selfish as well as the most obstinate girl he ever saw," she said. "And I don't intend to have foreigners like him go on doing American girls an injustice. Besides, maybe he's right about me—and I want him to be wrong. I hate having all the best things there are everywhere, just because I'm rich. The Harlows wanted a suite, and they couldn't afford to take one. They were looking sadly through the door at my rooms and envying me, so I thought I would change. I was determined to change, whether they would let me or not. They are old; I'm young, and I shall enjoy thinking I've done something nice for people I thoroughly dislike, as much as they will enjoy having their own bathroom."