"Most Russian women do, I think," observed the Doctor.
She laughed.
"But I am not Russian!"
"I know. I never thought you were," he returned composedly; "but everyone in the hotel has come to the conclusion that you are!"
"They are all wrong! What can I do to put them right?" she inquired with a fascinating little upward movement of her eyebrows.
"Nothing! Leave them in their ignorance. I shall not enlighten them, though I know your nationality."
"You do?" and a curious shadow darkened her features. "But perhaps you are wrong also!"
"I think not," said the Doctor, with gentle obstinacy. "You are an Egyptian. Born in Egypt; born OF Egypt. Pure Eastern! There is nothing Western about you. Is not it so?"
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 upper-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."
Gervase glanced him up and down, taking note of his pale face and wild eyes with a certain good-humored regret and compassion.
"Say on, my friend."
Denzil looked straight at him, biting his lips hard and clenching his hands in the effort to keep down some evidently violent emotion.
"The Princess Ziska," he began,-Gervase smiled, and flicked the ash off his cigarette.
"The Princess Ziska," he echoed,--"Yes? What of her? She seems to be the only person talked about in Cairo. Everybody in this hotel, at any rate, begins conversation with precisely the same words as you do,--'the Princess Ziska!' Upon my life, it is very amusing!"