And so it was that the Government remembered old Lord Roane, and likewise his illustrious son, the Viscount Roger Consinor, and sent them to Egypt on missions of trust.
CHAPTER X.
LORD CROMER’S RECEPTION.
It was but natural that Lord Cromer, with his intense loyalty to the home Government, should endeavor to show every honor to the latest recipients of Her Majesty’s favor. He gave a splendid dinner to Lord Roane and his family, which was followed by a reception attended by nearly every important personage then in Cairo.
At the dinner Gerald Winston was introduced to Aneth Consinor, and had the good fortune to be selected to escort her to the table. She won the big Englishman with the first glance from her clear, innocent eyes, and he was delighted to find that she conversed easily and with intelligence upon the themes that most interested him.
Winston knew something of the reputation of Lord Roane at home, and remembered not only his intrigue with the Egyptian princess in his youth, but the gossip of many more recent escapades that were distinctly unsavory. He had also heard whispers concerning his son, the viscount, that served to cast more or less discredit upon a name already sadly tarnished; but no one could look into Aneth’s candid eyes without being convinced that she was innocent of the sins of her fathers. Winston exonerated her at once of any possible contamination from such sources, rejoicing exultantly that the English maiden was unconscious of the smirch of her environments. However, as he listened to the girl’s bright chatter, an incongruous thought struck him and made him frown involuntarily. He remembered that she was a cousin—on the left hand, to be sure, but no less an unrecognized second cousin—to that dirty Egyptian whom he had lately discovered under the palms of Fedah, and who had since, by an astonishing evolution, become Prince Kāra. Lord Roane was grandfather to them both. It was not Aneth’s fault—perhaps she would never know of the illicit relationship; but his own knowledge of the fact rendered him uneasy for her sake, and he began to wish she had never been allowed to set foot in Egypt.
But here she was, and apparently very happy and contented by his side.
“Perhaps I am wrong in my estimate of Cleopatra,” she was saying; “but the inscriptions on the temple at Dendera seem to prove her to have been religious and high-minded to a degree. Perhaps it is Shakespeare’s romance of Antony and Cleopatra that has poisoned our minds as to the character of a noble woman.”
“Have you been to Dendera?” he asked; “and can you read the inscriptions?”
“I have penetrated into Egypt no farther than Cairo, Mr. Winston,” she responded, with a laugh; “therefore my acquaintance with the temples is confined to what I have read. But at my school was a teacher passionately fond of Egyptology, and around her she gathered a group of girls whom she inspired with a similar love for the subject. We have read everything we could procure that might assist us in our studies, and—don’t laugh, sir!—I can even write hieroglyphics a bit myself.”
“That is quite simple,” said he, smiling; “but can you decipher and translate the sign language?”