her; the faint odors that seemed exhaled from her garments,--the
gleam of the jewel-winged scarabei on her breast,--the weird light
of the emerald-studded serpent in her hair; and more, much more
familiar than these trifles, was the sound of her voice--dulcet,
penetrating, grave and haunting in its tone.

"At last we meet, Monsieur Armand Gervase!" she said slowly and
with a graceful inclination of her head. "But I cannot look upon
you as a stranger, for I have known you so long--in spirit!"

She smiled--a strange smile, dazzling yet enigmatical--and
something wild and voluptuous seemed to stir in Gervase's pulses
as he touched the small hand, loaded with quaint Egyptian gems,
which she graciously extended towards him.

"I think I have known you, too!" he said. "Possibly in a dream,--a
dream of beauty never realized till now!"

His voice sank to an amorous whisper; but she said nothing in
reply, nor could her looks be construed into any expression of
either pleasure or offence. Yet through the heart of young Denzil
Murray went a sudden pang of jealousy, and for the first time in
his life he became conscious that even among men as well as women
there may exist what is called the "petty envy" of a possible
rival, and the uneasy desire to outshine such an one in all points
of appearance, dress and manner. His gaze rested broodingly on the
tall, muscular form of Gervase, and he noted the symmetry and
supple grace of the man with an irritation of which he was
ashamed. He knew, despite his own undeniably handsome personality,
which was set off to such advantage that night by the richness of