“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten me,” he said. “By Jove! I haven’t forgotten you, and that turn of the wrist which sent that Levantine devil’s toothpick spinning. Well, and how are you?”
The men had sat down beside each other on the garden chair. Castleton produced a cigarette-case almost as fat as himself, on which a daintily-painted ballet girl disported.
“Try one!” he said; “they are ripping. Bingham Pasha sent them to me himself. He got them from the Sultan.”
Jacynth took a cigarette, lit it from the end of his own, Castleton watching him all the time with the most jocular expression.
“You’re not looking very fit,” he said. “Those confounded courts, I suppose. By Jove! I shouldn’t like to be a lawyer.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” Jacynth said; “I’m not taking the waters here. My sister lives here, and I’ve a festive little nephew. I only came here for a rest. I don’t quite know why I came here just now though. Kismet, I suppose.”
As he spoke that same vision of face and hair and eyes floated up before him.
Castleton laughed more boisterously than ever.
“Ah! Kismet, the dear old word. Yes, I suppose it’s fate that makes us do most of the things which we seem to do for no particular reason.”
“Has Kismet brought you here?” Jacynth inquired. “You seem fit enough at all events.”