“I have solved it.”
“What?”
“Girzilla.”
“Have you discovered who she is?”
“No, but who she is going to be.”
Max started. A crimson tide passed through the veins of his face.
In a whisper he asked:
“Who is she to be?”
“Ibrahim shall marry her.”
The union would be a good one. The marriage of a Persian with an Arabian could not be considered a mesalliance, at least as regards race; but to Max there was a certain pride of rank which would be outraged.