settled to go on the _Isis_. You didn't mention the desert plan before
you went away!


No news of that poor, beautiful child, Wretched Bey's wife though I've
written twice. I'm worried about her. Mabel she used to be. Now she's
Mabella Hanem! Biddy says you'll arrive for the ball to-morrow night.
But somehow I don't _feel_ you will. I don't know why you should. Men
don't care for such things much. And of course I shall not dance, as
I'm still in half mourning. I shall only look on, and then--Rachel and
I have an amusing plan for the end of the evening. But even if you
came, we couldn't let you into the secret, as you would think it silly.

Yours sincerely,

ROSAMOND GILDER.

Mine "sincerely, Rosamond Gilder!" So she ended her letter, with
youthful and characteristic dignity, childishly unaware, apparently,
that there was more to read between the lines than in the lines
themselves.

Had I read this Rosamond letter first, the last four or five sentences
would have meant little for me. As it was, I would have given a month
out of my future for the gift of an astral body which could go this
minute to the ball at the Ghezireh Palace. I was lost in the mystery of
that "amusing plan."

In Anthony's letter lay my last hope of a clue. But in it there was
none. He did not even mention Monny's name. It was all about that