The form of her lips had not been moulded into beauty by an assumed pout, nor were they distorted by youthful grimace. They were just wholesome lips, that helped her to talk, and laugh and sing. The rest of her face was in perfect harmony. It was not classical on the lines of a Grecian statue, nor an Italian Madonna. It was a modern, fascinating, yet dignified face. A broken arm or a bandaged wound invariably attract attention and sympathy, especially from women. Raife's bandaged shoulder, which necessitated that the right sleeve should remain empty, attracted the attention of the women at Shepheard's Hotel. His Apollo-like appearance added to the effect when he arrived. In addition to the side glances in his direction, as he reclined on a long wicker chair, shaded from the hot sun which streamed from above, he had to endure the bold stares of the more brazen-faced. At this time, Raife had suffered from two women, and he was, for the present, at least, a woman-hater. He, therefore, refused to notice any of the glances that he received, whatever their nature might be. The balcony piazza and foyer of an hotel are very like the deck of an ocean steamer, and it is not possible for an invalid to resist the advances of those who wish to be polite and render aid. Raife and Hilda Muirhead met in such a manner. The foyer was almost deserted, and Raife dropped his book just out of reach. Hilda Muirhead and her father were passing. Hilda darted forward and restored the book to Raife, who thanked her. Mr Muirhead remarked: "I hope your injury is not serious, sir?" To which Raife replied: "Oh, no. It is just a slight dagger wound." Hilda exclaimed, involuntarily: "A dagger!" Even in Egypt men are not frequently suffering from dagger wounds, and the word has a shudder in its sound. Mr Muirhead said, smilingly: "There is generally romance surrounding a dagger wound, sir. If it would not bore or distress you, perhaps, some time later, you might feel inclined to tell us as much as you care." Raife thought to himself: "Oh, hang these people. Why don't they go away? She's a charming girl, though." As he thought, Mr Muirhead, with a promptitude characteristic of Americans, produced his card, and, proffering it, said: "Here is my card, sir. I am a very humble American citizen. My daughter and I occupy the suite on the first floor, facing north. I shall take it as a compliment, if you should have a dull few minutes to spare, that you should honour us with a visit. We shall be here, or hereabouts, for a week or two." Even in Cairo the warmth of the old gentleman's invitation appeared rather sudden to Raife. However, he had not been in the United States, and had met few Americans. He certainly had not met one who combined so much courtliness of manner and dignity as Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, of the Fifth State Bank of Illinois, and father of a charming daughter with a musical voice.