She looked at him enigmatically.
“You have made a near guess,” she replied; “but you are not absolutely correct. Originally, I am of Egypt.”
Dr. Dean nodded pleasantly.
“Originally,—yes. That is precisely what I mean—originally! Let me take you in to supper.”
He offered his arm, but Gervase made a hasty step forward.
“Princess,” he began—
She waved him off lightly.
“My dear Monsieur Gervase, we are not in the desert, where Bedouin chiefs do just as they like. We are in a modern hotel in Cairo, and all the good English mammas will be dreadfully shocked if I am seen too much with you. I have danced with you five times, remember! And I will dance with you once more before I leave. When our waltz begins, come and find me in the supper-room.”
She moved away on Dr. Dean’s arm, and Gervase moodily drew back and let her pass. When she had gone, he lit a cigarette and walked impatiently up and down the terrace, a heavy frown wrinkling his brows. The shadow of a man suddenly darkened the moonlight in front of him, and Denzil Murray’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“Gervase,” he said, huskily, “I must speak to you.”