Then she turned, and slowly, with strange reluctance proceeded to quit this dim sanctuary. Still her mind was not relieved. Impulsively she hastened back and stood close under the grim black statue. "Sekhet," she whispered softly and rapidly, "help me--help me always. Whatever be the price of your aid I will pay it ungrudgingly. Watch over me; be ever near me. I cannot live without love. I do not shrink from its suffering. Sekhet, at all costs, I am thy worshipper. Do not forsake me. Do not forsake me ever." At the throat of her gown were fastened a couple of crimson roses. They drooped now after the long day, yet were still rich in perfume. These she unclasped and laid on the yellow sand at the base of the statue. Then, with a final glance around the little chamber--once well accustomed to the sound of prayer, now but the relic of a dead religion--she hurried away. CHAPTER XI A LOSING STRIFE Evarne radiated with delight and relief when this Nile cruise came to an end. She could not avoid the mortifying conviction that she had proved herself very childish and incompetent in having allowed a state of affairs so painful--let alone dangerous to herself and her future--to have come to pass, and to continue. Lucinda, ignorant as a kitten on Egyptology and all kindred subjects, had been wont to wax enthusiastic over what she appeared to consider Evarne's quite superhuman fund of knowledge and marvellous intelligence, as contrasted with her own much-lamented but unconquerable silliness. Yet the girl guessed shrewdly that had the situations been reversed, the frivolous, empty-headed Lucinda, so given to harping on the topic of her own incompetence, would have proved an infinitely more resourceful and successful tactician. Delightful indeed was it to see the last of the Belmonts--both so objectionable in their respective ways--and when she found herself once again alone with Morris at "Mon Bijou," she was gay and light-hearted as any child in her renewed happiness. Florelli's studio saw her not. She devoted her whole time to Morris, as bright, appreciative and amusing a little comrade as man could wish. But, alack and alas! this sojourn in the oasis of contentment was destined to be but brief. One morning, not long after their return, as they sat at breakfast on the verandah, Bianca entered with the post. No letters ever came for Evarne save bills, which she always passed straight over to Morris; but this time her name appeared on the face of a delicate pink envelope. On the back were the initials "L. B.," intertwined into a large and involved gold monogram. The whole thing was highly perfumed, and its recipient sniffed with exaggerated disdain even before she had opened the envelope and mastered its contents. When she had done that she looked up in genuine indignation as she murmured, "The impertinence of the woman!"