fascinating?"

A strange expression flashed across his face, but the smile on his lips
was hidden by his thick moustache.

"Fascinating, great Allah, yes! I should like to tell you of it some
time, signorina--the story of my life. It would interest you; yes, I
promise you that it would interest you. It would take a long time, I am
afraid, but you would listen, yes, you would listen to the very end."

He spoke quietly, but there was an intensity in his tone, and as he
spoke Olive's heart began to beat more rapidly. Again she was reminded
of Leicester, the man she had once promised to marry, and who had died
more than six years before. She almost felt afraid, for it seemed to her
that he was about to reveal some terrible secret. More than that, his
personality impressed her, just as Leicester's did in the old days.

"Do you know," he went on, "why I did not accept your father's
hospitality--that is, why I refused food and drink when I visited your
house that night of the concert?"

"I suppose because you were not hungry, and, as you said, you never
drink intoxicants," she said, uttering the first answer that came to her
lips.

"No, it was not that. I know, too, that my action in refusing his cigars
was rude. Even I know enough of your English laws of hospitality for
that. I wanted to walk back with you to tell you about this. Shall I
tell you?"

"I never thought of rudeness. I thought you meant what you said. Tell
me, if you wish."

"I refused because I thought you resented my presence. Forgive me if I
misinterpreted your face. You looked as though you were angry with me,
and angry at what I said."

"I am exceedingly sorry if any act or look of mine gave pain to a guest
in my father's house. Nothing could be further from my wishes. Neither
did I interpret your refusal to accept what was offered in that light."

"And yet you grew pale when I refused to take whisky."

Olive was silent.

"I will admit I should have done that under any circumstances," he went
on. "There the Mohammedans have much superiority over Christians. Not
that I am a Mohammedan--what religion I believe in is Christian; but
whisky, no. The depths into which it has dragged so many are too deep.
Nevertheless you grew pale as I mentioned it. I wondered why."

Still Olive did not speak. The dead past was rising all around her
again, and yet, strange to say, she did not think of Leicester with
tenderness. Rather, although the memories associat