Ziska | Page 7

of color in their skins; he studied Sir
Chetwynd Lyle and knew that he occasionally took bribes to "put
things" into his paper; he studied Dolly and Muriel Chetwynd Lyle, and
knew that they would never succeed in getting husbands; he studied
Lady Fulkeward, and thought her very well got up for sixty; he studied
Ross Courtney, and knew he would never do anything but kill animals
all his life; and he studied the working of the Gezireh Palace Hotel, and
saw a fortune rising out of it for the proprietors. But apart from these
ordinary surface things, he studied other matters--"occult" peculiarities
of temperament, "coincidences," strange occurrences generally. He
could read the Egyptian hieroglyphs perfectly, and he understood the
difference between "royal cartouche" scarabei and
Birmingham-manufactured ones. He was never dull; he had plenty to
do; and he took everything as it came in its turn. Even the costume ball
for which he had now attired himself did not present itself to him as a
"bore," but as a new vein of information, opening to him fresh glimpses

of the genus homo as seen in a state of eccentricity.
"I think," he now said, complacently, "that the cap and gown look well
for a man of my years. It is a simple garb, but cool, convenient and not
unbecoming. I had thought at first of adopting the dress of an ancient
Egyptian priest, but I find it difficult to secure the complete outfit. I
would never wear a costume of the kind that was not in every point
historically correct."
No one smiled. No one would have dared to smile at Dr. Maxwell Dean
when he spoke of "historically correct" things. He had studied them as
he had studied everything, and he knew all about them.
Sir Chetwynd murmured:
"Quite right--er--the ancient designs were very elaborate--"
"And symbolic," finished Dr. Dean. "Symbolic of very curious
meanings, I assure you. But I fear I have interrupted your talk. Mr.
Courtney was speaking about somebody's beautiful eyes; who is the
fair one in question?"
"The Princess Ziska," said Lord Fulkeward. "I was saying that I don't
quite like the look of her eyes."
"Why not? Why not?" demanded the doctor with sudden asperity.
"What's the matter with them?"
"Everything's the matter with them!" replied Ross Courtney with a
forced laugh. "They are too splendid and wild for Fulke; he likes the
English pale-blue better than the Egyptian gazelle-black."
"No, I don't," said Lord Fulkeward, speaking more animatedly than was
customary with him. "I hate, pale-blue eyes. I prefer soft violet-gray
ones, like Miss Murray's."
"Miss Helen Murray is a very charming young lady," said Dr. Dean.
"But her beauty is quite of an ordinary type, while that of the Princess

Ziska--"
"Is EXTRA-ordinary--exactly! That's just what I say!" declared
Courtney. "I think she is the loveliest woman I have ever seen."
There was a pause, during which the little doctor looked with a
ferret-like curiosity from one man to the other. Sir Chetwynd Lyle rose
ponderously up from the depths of his arm-chair.
"I think," said he, "I had better go and get into my uniform--the
Windsor, you know! I always have it with me wherever I go; it comes
in very useful for fancy balls such as the one we are going to have
tonight, when no particular period is observed in costume. Isn't it about
time we all got ready?"
"Upon my life, I think it is!" agreed Lord Fulkeward. "I am coming out
as a Neapolitan fisherman! I don't believe Neapolitan fishermen ever
really dress in the way I'm going to make up, but it's the accepted
stage-type, don'cher know."
"Ah! I daresay you will look very well in it," murmured Ross Courtney,
vaguely. "Hullo! here comes Denzil Murray!"
They all turned instinctively to watch the entrance of a handsome
young man, attired in the picturesque garb worn by Florentine nobles
during the prosperous reign of the Medicis. It was a costume admirably
adapted to the wearer, who, being grave and almost stern of feature,
needed the brightness of jewels and the gloss of velvet and satin to
throw out the classic contour of his fine head and enhance the lustre of
his brooding, darkly- passionate eyes. Denzil Murray was a
pure-blooded Highlander,--the level brows, the firm lips, the straight,
fearless look, all bespoke him a son of the heather-crowned mountains
and a descendant of the proud races that scorned the "Sassenach," and
retained sufficient of the material whereof their early Phoenician
ancestors were made to be capable of both the extremes of hate and
love in their most potent forms. He moved slowly towards the group of
men awaiting his approach with a reserved air of something like
hauteur; it was possible he was conscious of his good looks,