Memory asserted herself in Jacynth’s mind. He did remember a night in Cairo when a party of young fellows from Shepheard’s set out to see something of the queer Cairene slums. The fat little man was of the party; he was in white then, too, Jacynth remembered. He remembered, too, how hugely the little man had enjoyed everything, from the--well, the eccentricities of the dancing girls to the fumes in the hasheesh den, and even to the final scrimmage in the gambling hell, when Jacynth by a timely stroke saved his fat companion from being knifed by a Levantine rogue who had been detected in cheating. There was an awful row afterward; he remembered that, too, and an awkward business before the authorities next morning, but the names of his friends and his own legal reputation settled the matter. Yes, he remembered the fat little man now. He got up with a smile on his dark, clean-shaven face and held out his hand. “How are you, Lord Castleton?” Lord Castleton laughed. That was his way. He went through life laughing, as if everything were the best joke in the world. “I’m glad you haven’t forgotten me,” he said. “By Jove! I haven’t forgotten you, and that turn of the wrist which sent that Levantine devil’s toothpick spinning. Well, and how are you?” The men had sat down beside each other on the garden chair. Castleton produced a cigarette-case almost as fat as himself, on which a daintily-painted ballet girl disported. “Try one!” he said; “they are ripping. Bingham Pasha sent them to me himself. He got them from the Sultan.” Jacynth took a cigarette, lit it from the end of his own, Castleton watching him all the time with the most jocular expression. “You’re not looking very fit,” he said. “Those confounded courts, I suppose. By Jove! I shouldn’t like to be a lawyer.” “Oh, I’m all right,” Jacynth said; “I’m not taking the waters here. My sister lives here, and I’ve a festive little nephew. I only came here for a rest. I don’t quite know why I came here just now though. Kismet, I suppose.” As he spoke that same vision of face and hair and eyes floated up before him. Castleton laughed more boisterously than ever. “Ah! Kismet, the dear old word. Yes, I suppose it’s fate that makes us do most of the things which we seem to do for no particular reason.” “Has Kismet brought you here?” Jacynth inquired. “You seem fit enough at all events.” “Fit, my dear fellow? not at all.” It was one of Castleton’s little jocularities with life to consider himself likely at any moment to become a confirmed invalid. “I was up in Bagdad, and I picked up an English paper which said that Harrogate was looking lovely, and somehow I felt homesick and seedy, and all that sort of thing, so I just cut the East and came slap on here.” “Do you know,” said Jacynth gravely, “that there are moments when I feel much more inclined to cut the West and go, as you say, ‘slap on’ to some sleepy Eastern place--Bagdad perhaps, or Japan--and dream away the rest of my life.”