palace as he left with Kingsley Bey thirty-six hours before. He had hope
that he could save the situation, but meanwhile he was concerned for the
new situation created here at Assiout. What would Kingsley do? He knew
what he himself would do in the circumstances, but in crises few men of
character do the necessary thing in exactly the same way. Here was
comedy of a high order, a mystery and necessary revelation of singular
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