Monte Irvin turned to the tall fair girl who sat upon the arm of a cane rest-chair beside Rita.
“But nothing can ever efface the memory of all you have done for Rita, and for me,” he said, “nothing, Mrs. Seton.”
“Oh,” said Margaret, “my mind was away back, and that sounded—so odd.”
Seton Pasha, who occupied the lounge-chair upon the broad arm of which his wife was seated, looked up, smiling into the suddenly flushed face. They were but newly returned from their honeymoon, and had just taken possession of their home, for Seton was now stationed in Cairo. He flicked a cone of ash from his cheroot.
“It seems to me that we are all more or less indebted to one another,” he declared. “For instance, I might never have met you, Margaret, if I had not run into your cousin that eventful night at Princes; and Gray would not have been gazing abstractedly out of the doorway if Mrs. Irvin had joined him for dinner as arranged. One can trace almost every episode in life right back, and ultimately come—”
“To Kismet!” cried his wife, laughing merrily. “So before we begin dinner tonight—which is a night of reunion—I am going to propose a toast to Kismet!”
“Good!” said Seton, “we shall all drink it gladly. Eh, Irvin?”
“Gladly, indeed,” agreed Monte Irvin. “You know, Seton,” he continued, “we have been wandering, Rita and I; and ever since your wife handed her patient over to me as cured we have covered some territory. I don’t know if you or Chief Inspector Kerry has been responsible, but the press accounts of the Kazmah affair have been scanty to baldness. One stray bit of news reached us—in Colorado, I think.”
“What was that, Mr. Irvin?” asked Margaret, leaning towards the speaker.
“It was about Mollie Gretna. Someone wrote and told me that she had eloped with a billiard marker—a married man with five children!”