“Seton! Seton Pasha!”
The frown disappeared from Gray’s forehead, and he gripped the other’s hand in hearty greeting. But:
“Stick to plain Seton!” said the new-comer, glancing rapidly about him. “Ottoman titles are not fashionable.”
The speaker was a man of arresting personality. Above medium height, well but leanly built, the face of Seton “Pasha” was burned to a deeper shade than England’s wintry sun is capable of producing. He wore a close-trimmed beard and moustache, and the bronze on his cheeks enhanced the brightness of his grey eyes and rendered very noticeable a slight frosting of the dark hair above his temples. He had the indescribable air of a “sure” man, a sound man to have beside one in a tight place; and looking into the rather grim face, Quentin Gray felt suddenly ashamed of himself. From Seton Pasha he knew that he could keep nothing back. He knew that presently he should find himself telling this quiet, brown-skinned man the whole story of his humiliation—and he knew that Seton would not spare his feelings.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “you must pardon me if I sometimes fail to respect your wishes in this matter. When I left the East the name of Seton Pasha was on everybody’s tongue. But are you alone?”
“I am. I only arrived in London tonight and in England this morning.”
“Were you thinking of dining here?”
“No; I saw you through the doorway as I was passing. But this will do as well as another place. I gather that you are disengaged. Perhaps you will dine with me?”
“Splendid!” cried Gray. “Wait a moment. Perhaps my table hasn’t gone!”
He ran off in his boyish, impetuous fashion, and Seton watched him, smiling quietly.