Ziska | Page 8

but it was

equally evident that he did not desire to be made the object of
impertinent remark. His friends silently recognized this, and only Lord
Fulkeward, moved to a mild transport of admiration, ventured to
comment on his appearance.
"I say, Denzil, you're awfully well got up! Awfully well! Magnificent!"
Denzil Murray bowed with a somewhat wearied and sarcastic air.
"When one is in Rome, or Egypt, one must do as Rome, or Egypt,
does," he said, carelessly. "If hotel proprietors will give fancy balls, it
is necessary to rise to the occasion. You look very well, Doctor. Why
don't you other fellows go and get your toggeries on? It's past ten
o'clock, and the Princess Ziska will be here by eleven."
"There are other people coming besides the Princess Ziska, are there
not, Mr. Murray?" inquired Sir Chetwynd Lyle, with an obtrusively
bantering air.
Denzil Murray glanced him over disdainfully.
"I believe there are," he answered coolly. "Otherwise the ball would
scarcely pay its expenses. But as the Princess is admittedly the most
beautiful woman in Cairo this season, she will naturally be the centre of
attraction. That's why I mentioned she would be here at eleven."
"She told you that?" inquired Ross Courtney.
"She did."
Courtney looked up, then down, and seemed about to speak again, but
checked himself and finally strolled off, followed by Lord Fulkeward.
"I hear," said Dr. Dean then, addressing Denzil Murray, "that a great
celebrity has arrived at this hotel--the painter, Armand Gervase."
Denzil's face brightened instantly with a pleasant smile.
"The dearest friend I have in the world!" he said. "Yes, he is here. I met

him outside the door this afternoon. We are very old chums. I have
stayed with him in Paris, and he has stayed with me in Scotland. A
charming fellow! He is very French in his ideas; but he knows England
well, and speaks English perfectly."
"French in his ideas!" echoed Sir Chetwynd Lyle, who was just
preparing to leave the lounge. "Dear me! How is that?"
"He is a Frenchman," said Dr. Dean, suavely. "Therefore that his ideas
should be French ought not to be a matter of surprise to us, my dear Sir
Chetwynd."
Sir Chetwynd snorted. He had a suspicion that he--the editor and
proprietor of the Daily Dial--was being laughed at, and he at once
clambered on his high horse of British Morality.
"Frenchman or no Frenchman," he observed, "the ideas promulgated in
France at the present day are distinctly profane and pernicious. There is
a lack of principle--a want of rectitude in-- er--the French Press, for
example, that is highly deplorable."
"And is the English Press immaculate?" asked Denzil languidly.
"We hope so," replied Sir Chetwynd. "We do our best to make it so."
And with that remark he took his paunch and himself away into
retirement, leaving Dr. Dean and young Murray facing each other, a
singular pair enough in the contrast of their appearance and dress,--the
one small, lean and wiry, in plain-cut, loose-flowing academic gown;
the other tall, broad and muscular, clad in the rich attire of mediaeval
Florence, and looking for all the world like a fine picture of that period
stepped out from, its frame. There was a silence between them for a
moment,--then the Doctor spoke in a low tone:
"It won't do, my dear boy,--I assure you it won't do! You will break
your heart over a dream, and make yourself miserable for nothing. And
you will break your sister's heart as well; perhaps you haven't thought
of that?"

Denzil flung himself into the chair Sir Chetwynd had just vacated, and
gave vent to a sigh that was almost a groan.
"Helen doesn't know anything--yet," he said hoarsely. "I know nothing
myself; how can I? I haven't said a word to--to HER. If I spoke all that
was in my mind, I daresay she would laugh at me. You are the only one
who has guessed my secret. You saw me last night when I--when I
accompanied her home. But I never passed her palace gates,--she
wouldn't let me. She bade me 'good-night' outside; a servant admitted
her, and she vanished through the portal like a witch or a ghost.
Sometimes I fancy she IS a ghost. She is so white, so light, so noiseless
and so lovely!"
He turned his eyes away, ashamed of the emotion that moved him. Dr.
Maxwell Dean took off his academic cap and examined its interior as
though he considered it remarkable.
"Yes," he said slowly; "I have thought the same thing of her
myself--sometimes."
Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the military
band of the evening, which now crossed the "lounge," each man
carrying his instrument with him; and these were followed by several
groups of people in