“Oh, I never insist—” declared Lord Melthorpe, laughing, “You are the man for insisting, not I. But I shall take it as a favour if he will accompany you.”
“You hear, Féraz—” and El-Râmi looked at his brother inquiringly—“Lord Melthorpe invites you to a great reception next Tuesday evening. Would you like to go?”
Féraz glanced from one to the other half smilingly, half doubtfully.
“Yes, I should like it,” he said at last.
“Then we shall expect you,—” and Lord Melthorpe rose to take his leave,—“It’s a sort of diplomatic and official affair—fellows will look in either before or after the Foreign Office crush, which is on the same evening, and orders and decorations will be in full force, I believe. Oh, by the way, Lady Melthorpe begged me to ask you most particularly to wear Oriental dress.”
“I shall obey her ladyship;”—and El-Râmi smiled a little satirically—the character of the lady in question was one that always vaguely amused him.
“And your brother will do the same, I hope?”
“Assuredly!” and El-Râmi shook hands with his visitor, bidding Féraz escort him to the door. When he had gone, Féraz sprang into the study again with all the eager impetuosity of a boy.
“What is it like—a reception in England?” he asked—“And why does Lord Melthorpe ask me?”
“I cannot imagine!” returned his brother drily—“Why do you want to go?”