nervously.

"Well, well! We'll resume our conversation another time," and Dr.
Dean took her hand and patted it pleasantly. "Don't fret yourself
about Denzil; he'll be all right. And take my advice: don't marry
a Bedouin chief; marry an honest, straightforward, tender-hearted
Englishman who'll take care of you, not a nondescript savage
who'll desert you!"

And with a humorous and kindly smile, Dr. Dean moved off to join
the two motionless and picturesque figures that stood side by side
looking at the moon, while Helen, like a frightened bird suddenly
released, fled precipitately back to the ball-room, where Ross
Courtney was already searching for her as his partner in the next
waltz.

"Upon my word," mused the Doctor, "this is a very pretty kettle of
fish! The Gezireh Palace Hotel is not a hotel at all, it seems to
me; it is a lunatic asylum. What with Lady Fulkeward getting
herself up as twenty at the age of sixty; and Muriel and Dolly
Chetwynd Lyle man-hunting with more ferocity than sportsmen hunt
tigers; Helen in love, Denzil in love, Gervase in love--dear me!
dear me! What a list of subjects for a student's consideration!
And the Princess Ziska ..."

He broke off his meditations abruptly, vaguely impressed by the
strange solemnity of the night. An equal solemnity seemed to
surround the two figures to which he now drew nigh, and as the
Princess Ziska turned her eyes upon him as he came, he was, to his
own vexation, aware that something indefinable disturbed his usual