“That was not the fault of the religion, but of the generations of oppression--they lie as a child lies, to escape consequences. Had they not been oppressed they would have been good Christians in practice as in precept.” “They don’t steal as a child steals,” laughed Dicky. “Armenians are Oriental through and through. They no more understand the Christian religion than the Soudanese understand freedom.” He touched the right note this time. Kingsley flashed a half-startled, half-humorous look at him; the face of the lady became set, her manner delicately frigid. She was about to make a quiet, severe reply, but something overcame her, and her eyes, her face, suddenly glowed. She leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly on her knees--Kingsley could not but note how beautiful and brown they were, capable, handsome, confident hands--and, in a voice thrilling with feeling, said: “What is there in the life here that gets into the eyes of Europeans and blinds them? The United States spent scores of thousands of lives to free the African slave. England paid millions, and sacrificed ministries and men, to free the slave; and in England, you--you, Donovan Pasha, and men like you, would be in the van against slavery. Yet here, where England has more influence than any other nation--” “More power, not influence,” Dicky interrupted smiling. “Here, you endure, you encourage, you approve of it. Here, an Englishman rules a city of slaves in the desert and grows rich out of their labour. What can we say to the rest of the world, while out there in the desert”--her eyes swept over the grey and violet hills--“that man, Kingsley Bey, sets at defiance his race, his country, civilisation, all those things in which he was educated? Egypt will not believe in English civilisation, Europe will not believe in her humanity and honesty, so long as he pursues his wicked course.” She turned with a gesture of impatience, and in silence began to pour the tea the servant had brought, with a message that Madame had a headache. Kingsley Bey was about to speak--it was so unfair to listen, and she would forgive this no more readily than she would forgive slavery. Dicky intervened, however. “He isn’t so black as he’s painted, personally. He’s a rash, inflammable sort of fellow, who has a way with the native--treats him well, too, I believe. Very flamboyant, doomed to failure, so far as his merit is concerned, but with an incredible luck. He gambled, and he lost a dozen times; and then gambled again, and won. That’s the truth, I fancy. No real stuff in him whatever.” Their hostess put down her tea-cup, and looked at Dicky in blank surprise. Not a muscle in his face moved. She looked at Kingsley. He had difficulty in restraining himself, but by stooping to give her fox-terrier a piece of cake, he was able to conceal his consternation. “I cannot--cannot believe it,” she said slowly. “The British Consul does not speak of him like that.”