“Do you tell My Lady so?”
“Wherefore should I tell My Lady what she knows? Is not the truth the truth? Good-night! I had a brother who went to prison. His grave is by Stamboul. Good-night, effendi. He was too young to die, but he had gold, and the captain of the citadel needed money. So, he had to die. Malaish! He is in the bosom of God, and prison does not last forever. Goodnight, effendi. If you, effendi, are poor, it is well; no man will desire your life. Then you can be a slave, and have quiet nights. If you are rich, effendi, remember my brother. Good-night, effendi. May sacrifices be yours... and My Lady says good-night.” Kingsley gave her a gold-piece and went down to Foulik Pasha.
As they steamed away Kingsley looked in vain to the house on the shore. There was no face at window or door, no sign of life about the place.
“Well, my bold bey,” said Donovan Pasha to him at last, “what do you think of Egypt now?”
“I’m not thinking of Egypt now.”
“Did the lady deeply sympathise? Did your prescription work?”
“You know it didn’t. Nothing worked. This fool Foulik came at the wrong moment.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference. You see you were playing with marked cards, and that is embarrassing. You got a certificate of character by—”
“Yes, I know. That’s what she said. Never mind. I’ve played as I meant to play, and I’ll abide the result. I said I’d marry her, and I mean to, though she gently showed me the door—beautiful, proud person!”
“She is much too good for you.”