e than to you, except that I
happened to make her acquaintance a few days sooner."

"I know," Nevill agreed, mildly. Then, after a pause, which he earnestly
occupied in crumbling bread. "Only I'm head over ears in love with
another woman, while you're free to think of her, or any other girl,
every minute of the day."

Stephen's face reddened. "I am not free," he said in a low voice.

"I beg your pardon. I hoped you were. I still think--you ought to be."
Nevill spoke quickly, and without giving Stephen time to reply, he
hurried on; "Miss Ray may arrive here yet. Or she may have found out
about Mouni in some other way, and have gone to see her in Grand
Kabylia--who knows?"

"If she were merely going there to inquire about her sister, why should
she have to make a mystery of her movements?"

"Well, it's on the cards that whatever she wanted to do, she didn't care
to be bothered with our troublesome advice and offers of help. Our
interest was, perhaps, too pressing."

"Mademoiselle Soubise is of that opinion, anyhow--in regard to you,"
remarked Stephen.

"What--that angel _jealous_? It's too good to be true! But I'll relieve
her mind of any such idea."

"If you'll take one more tip from me, I'd leave her mind alone for the
present."

"Why, you flinty-hearted reprobate?"

"Well, I'm no authority. But all's fair in love and war. And sometimes
an outsider sees features of the game which the players don't see."

"That's true, anyhow," Nevill agreed. "Let's _both_ remember that--eh?"
and he got up from the table abruptly, as if to keep Stephen from
answering, or asking what he meant.

They had several empty hours, between the time of finishing luncheon,
and five o'clock, when they were to meet Mademoiselle Soubise and her
chaperon, so they took Josette's advice and went sightseeing.

Preoccupied as he was, Stephen could not be indifferent to the
excursion, for Tlemcen is the shrine of gems in Arab architecture, only
equalled at Granada itself. Though he was so ignorant still of eastern
lore, that he hardly knew the meaning of the word mihrab, the arched
recess looking towards Mecca, in the Mosque of the lawyer-saint Aboul
Hassan, held him captive for many moments with its beauty. Its
ornamentation was like the spread tail of Nevill's white peacock, or the
spokes of a silver wheel incrusted with an intricate pattern in jewels.
Not a mosque in town, or outside the gates, did they leave unvisited,
lest, as Nevill s