piquancy. To his thinking the revelation was now overdue.

He looked at the woman beside him, and he saw in her face a look
it never had had before. Revelation of a kind was there; beauty,
imagination, solicitude, delicate wonder were there. It touched him. He
had never been arrested on his way of life by any dream of fair women,
or any dream of any woman. It did not seem necessary--no one was
necessary to him; he lived his real life alone, never sharing with any
one that of himself which was not part of the life he lived before the
world. Yet he had always been liked by men, and he had been agreeable
in the sight of more women than he knew, this little man with a will
of iron and a friendly heart. But he laughed silently now as he saw
Kingsley approaching; the situation was so beautifully invented. It
did not seem quite like a thing in real life. In any other country
than Egypt it would have been comic opera--Foulik Pasha and his men
so egregiously important; Kingsley so overwhelmed by the duty that lay
before him; the woman in a whimsically embarrassing position with the
odds, the laugh, against her, yet little likely to take the obvious view
of things and so make possible a commonplace end. What would she do?
What would Kingsley do? What would he, Dicky Donovan, do? He knew by the
look in Kingsley's eyes that it was time for him to go. He moved down
to Foulik Pasha, and, taking his arm, urged him towards the shore with a
whispered word. The Pasha responded, followed by his men, but presently
turned and, before Dicky could intervene--for he wanted Kingsley to make
his own revelation--said courteously:

"May the truth of Allah be with you, I will await you at the boat,
Kingsley Bey."

Dicky did not turn round, but, with a sharp exclamation of profanity,
drew Foulik Pasha on his imbecile way.

As for Kingsley Bey, he faced a woman who, as the truth dawned upon her,
stared at him in a painful silence for a moment, and then drew back to
the doorway of the house as though to find sudden refuge. Kingsley's
head went round. Nothing had gone according to his anticipations. Foulik
Pasha had upset things.

"Now you know--I wished to tell you myself," he said.

She answered at once, quietly, coldly, and with an even formal voice: "I
did not know your name was Kingsley."

"It was my grandmother's name."

"I had forgotten--that is of no consequence, however; but--" she
stopped.

"You realise that I am--"

"Yes, of co