Féraz looked up with a pleased yet startled expression.
“Yes,—but how did you know it?” he asked.
It was now the artist’s turn to be embarrassed. He had used the words “different sphere” merely as a figure of speech, whereas this intelligent-looking young fellow evidently took the phrase in a literal sense. It was very odd!—and he hesitated what to answer, so El-Râmi came to the rescue.
“Mr. Ainsworth only means that you do not look quite like other people, Féraz, that’s all. Poets and musicians often carry their own distinctive mark.”
“Is he a poet?” inquired Lord Melthorpe with interest.—“And has he published anything?”
El-Râmi laughed good-humouredly.
“Not he! My dear Lord Melthorpe, we are not all called upon to give the world our blood and brain and nerve and spirit. Some few reserve their strength for higher latitudes. To give greedy humanity everything of one’s self is rather too prodigal an expenditure.”
“I agree with you,” said a chill yet sweet voice close to them.—“It was Christ’s way of work,—and quite too unwise an example for any of us to follow.”
Lord Melthorpe and Mr. Ainsworth turned quickly to make way for the speaker,—a slight fair woman, with a delicate thoughtful face full of light, languor, and scorn, who, clad in snowy draperies adorned here and there with the cold sparkle of diamonds, drew near them at the moment. El-Râmi and his brother both noted her with interest,—she was so different from the other women present.
“I am delighted to see you!” said Lord Melthorpe as he held out his hand in greeting.—“It is so seldom we have the honour! Mr. Ainsworth you already know,—let me introduce my Oriental friends here,—El-Râmi Zarânos and his brother Féraz Zarânos,—Madame Irene Vassilius—you must have heard of her very often.”