“Ah! there is the difficulty! What is it that engrosses our fair friend more than the looking-glass? I should like to know—but I cannot find out. It is an enigma as profound as that of the Sphinx. Good-morning, Monsieur Gervase!”—and, turning round, he addressed the artist, who just then stepped out on the terrace carrying a paint-box and a large canvas strapped together in portable form. “Are you going to sketch some picturesque corner of the city?”
“No,” replied Gervase, listlessly raising his white sun-hat to the ladies present with a courteous, yet somewhat indifferent grace. “I’m going to the Princess Ziska’s. I shall probably get the whole outline of her features this morning.”
“A full-length portrait?” inquired the Doctor.
“I fancy not. Not the first attempt, at any rate—head and shoulders only.”
“Do you know where her house is?” asked Lord Fulkeward. “If you don’t, I’ll walk with you and show you the way.”
“Thanks—you are very good. I shall be obliged to you.”
And raising his hat again he sauntered slowly off, young Fulkeward walking with him and chatting to him with more animation than that exhausted and somewhat vacant-minded aristocrat usually showed to anyone.
“It is exceedingly warm,” said Lady Lyle, rising then and putting away her cross-stitch apparatus, “I thought of driving to the Pyramids this afternoon, but really …”
“There is shade all the way,” suggested the Doctor, “I said as much to a young woman this morning who has been in the hotel for nearly two months, and hasn’t seen the Pyramids yet.”
“What has she been doing with herself?” asked Lady Fulkeward, smiling.