respectable
neighbours and the women of the Wasr, the role of a defunct and saintly
Arab does not appeal to me." Some reflection of the setting sun touched
him where he stood and bathed him as in fire. The small tight curls of
hair and beard became each a tongue of flame and his eyes glittered like
molten gold. "Pardon my apparent rudeness, but I don't think you are
listening."

"I am not," murmured Paul. "Your words reach me from a great distance.
My spirit is uneasy to-night, and whilst myself I remain in your ivory
room and hear you speak another self stands in a vast temple of black
gleaming granite before the shrine of a golden bull."

"You are possibly thinking of Apis. From Cairo you have proceeded to
Sakkara. Or are the gaudy hue of my hair and the yeoman proportions of
my shape responsible for the idea?"

"I cannot say, nor was I actually thinking of the Serapeum."

"You are not yourself. You have been studying the war news or else you
have passed a piebald horse without spitting twice and crossing your
fingers."

Paul laughed, but not in the frank boyish way that was so good to hear.
"I am not myself, Thessaly, or if I am I do not recognise myself."

"You have committed some indiscretion such as presenting your
siren-haired protegee, Flamby Duveen, to your wife."

"I have not," said Paul sharply.

"I am glad. He who presents one pretty woman to another makes two
lifelong enemies."

"I did not know that you had met Flamby."

"She has been described to me and she sounds dangerous. I distrust
curly-haired girls. They are full of electricity, and electricity is a
force of which we know so little. Does the idea of a cocktail appeal to
you? I have a man who has invented a new cocktail which he calls 'Fra
Diavolo.' Viewed through the eyes of Fra Diavolo you will find the world
a more cheery globe."

"Thanks, no. But I will smoke." From his coat pocket Paul took out a
briar pipe and the well-worn pouch. "In a month, Thessaly, _The Key_
will be in the printer's hands. I found myself thinking of Pandora this
morning. There are few really virtuous women and truth is a draught
almost as heady I should imagine as Fra Diavolo."

"My dear Mario, you must admit that virtue is the least picturesque of
the vices. When aggressive it becomes a positive disfigurement. The 'on
guard' position, though useful in bayonet-fighting, leaves the aesthete
cold. You would not have us treat our women as the Moslems do?"

"Wo