They all turned instinctively to watch the entrance of a handsome young man, attired in the picturesque garb worn by Florentine nobles during the prosperous reign of the Medicis. It was a costume admirably adapted to the wearer, who, being grave and almost stern of feature, needed the brightness of jewels and the gloss of velvet and satin to throw out the classic contour of his fine head and enhance the lustre of his brooding, darkly-passionate eyes. Denzil Murray was a pure-blooded Highlander,--the level brows, the firm lips, the straight, fearless look, all bespoke him a son of the heather-crowned mountains and a descendant of the proud races that scorned the “Sassenach,” and retained sufficient of the material whereof their early Phœnician ancestors were made to be capable of both the extremes of hate and love in their most potent forms. He moved slowly towards the group of men awaiting his approach with a reserved air of something like _hauteur_; it was possible he was conscious of his good looks, but it was equally evident that he did not desire to be made the object of impertinent remark. His friends silently recognized this, and only Lord Fulkeward, moved to a mild transport of admiration, ventured to comment on his appearance. “I say, Denzil, you’re awfully well got up! Awfully well! Magnificent!” Denzil Murray bowed with a somewhat wearied and sarcastic air. “When one is in Rome, or Egypt, one must do as Rome, or Egypt, does,” he said, carelessly. “If hotel proprietors will give fancy balls, it is necessary to rise to the occasion. You look very well, Doctor. Why don’t you other fellows go and get your toggeries on? It’s past ten o’clock, and the Princess Ziska will be here by eleven.” “There are other people coming besides the Princess Ziska, are there not, Mr. Murray?” inquired Sir Chetwynd Lyle, with an obtrusively bantering air. Denzil Murray glanced him over disdainfully. “I believe there are,” he answered coolly. “Otherwise the ball would scarcely pay its expenses. But as the Princess is admittedly the most beautiful woman in Cairo this season, she will naturally be the centre of attraction. That’s why I mentioned she would be here at eleven.” “She told you that?” inquired Ross Courtney. “She did.” Courtney looked up, then down, and seemed about to speak again, but checked himself and finally strolled off, followed by Lord Fulkeward. “I hear,” said Dr. Dean then, addressing Denzil Murray, “that a great celebrity has arrived at this hotel--the painter, Armand Gervase.” Denzil’s face brightened instantly with a pleasant smile. “The dearest friend I have in the world!” he said. “Yes, he is here. I met him outside the door this afternoon. We are very old chums. I have stayed with him in Paris, and he has stayed with me in Scotland. A charming fellow! He is very French in his ideas; but he knows England well, and speaks English perfectly.”