That once vexed question of dress had been settled. Zalithea understood that no slight was intended by the wearing of a lounge suit. She seemed to think that the Winter Palace was the palace of Pharaoh, and she tried to ask if the reigning monarch was absent at war. She was extraordinarily observant. In the cool of the evening, with Safîyeh in attendance, and escorted by Barry or John Cumberland, Zalithea would walk along the bank as far as the old _shadûf_. The really fashionable crowd was not yet in evidence, but, nevertheless, she quickly noticed--since wealthy Moslem women rarely appear in public--that except among the lower classes veils were nowhere to be seen. This problem was quite beyond Barry’s power of explanation. But John Cumberland, in his practical way, set to work to solve it. From Cairo one day stacks of boxes arrived and were duly carried up to Zalithea’s apartment. Barry had just bought her a bundle of illustrated magazines and was watching her, fascinatedly, as she pored over pages of photographs showing society groups in various sun traps from Mentone to Miami. What an exquisite profile she had! He wondered, was eternally wondering, where the island of Unu had been. Zalithea’s long, narrow dark eyes were of a kind he had never seen among the modern Egyptians, but they were typical of the women depicted on the ancient wall paintings. Her profile, too, was purely aristocratic and bore a remarkable resemblance to that of the beautiful queen Ameniritis. His rapt study of the girl was interrupted by the delivery of the boxes. Zalithea ran in from the balcony immediately, filled with childish interest. As box after box was laid on the carpet, her excitement grew intense. Stooping, she touched a label, looked at Barry interrogatively and then indicated herself. “Yes,” he said, “for you! All for you.” “Fo-ah you?” “No--you! you are me! I don’t know how to explain!” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Me,” he said. Zalithea, watching him eagerly, touched her own breast, and: “Me,” she echoed. “Yes!” Barry nodded. “For me.” “Fo-ah me.” She clapped her hands excitedly and indicated that he should cut the fastenings. Happy because Zalithea was happy, he obeyed.… and out from this box and from that, with a vast rustling of tissue paper, came frocks, stockings, hats, flaky, delicate underwear--priceless loot of Paris. Never had he seen Zalithea so excited. Taking up piece after piece, she literally danced in her joy!