“I will not--I promise! But”--and here Gervase paused, looking his young friend full in the eyes, “remember, if your chance falls to the ground--if Madame gives you your _congé_--if she does not consent to be a Scottish châtelaine and listen every day to the bagpipes at dinner,--you cannot expect me then to be indifferent to my own desires. She shall not be Madame Gervase,--oh, no! She shall not be asked to attend to the _pot-au-feu_; she shall act the rôle for which she has dressed to-night; she shall be another Charmazel to another Araxes, though the wild days of Egypt are no more!” A sudden shiver ran through him as he spoke, and instinctively he drew the white folds of his picturesque garb closer about him. “There is a chill wind sweeping in from the desert,” he said, “an evil, sandy breath tasting of mummy-dust blown through the crevices of the tombs of kings. Let us go in.” Murray looked at him in a kind of dull despair. “And what is to be done?” he asked. “I cannot answer for myself--and--from what you say, neither can you.” “My dear friend--or foe--whichever you determine to be, I can answer for myself in one particular at any rate, namely, that as I told you, I shall not ask the Princess to marry me. You, on the contrary, will do so. _Bonne chance!_ I shall do nothing to prevent Madame from accepting the honorable position you intend to offer her. And till the fiat has gone forth and the fair one has decided, we will not fly at each other’s throats like wolves disputing possession of a lamb; we will assume composure, even if we have it not.” He paused, and laid one hand kindly on the younger man’s shoulder, “Is it agreed?” Denzil gave a mute sign of resigned acquiescence. “Good! I like you, Denzil; you are a charming boy! Hot-tempered and a trifle melodramatic in your loves and hatreds,--yes!--for that you might have been a Provençal instead of a Scot. Before I knew you I had a vague idea that all Scotchmen were, or needs must be, ridiculous,--I don’t know why. I associated them with bagpipes, short petticoats and whisky. I had no idea of the type you so well represent,--the dark, fine eyes, the strong physique, and the impetuous disposition which suggests the South rather than the North; and to-night you look so unlike the accepted _café chantant_ picture of the ever-dancing Highlander that you might in very truth be a Florentine in more points than the dress which so well becomes you. Yes,--I like you--and more than you, I like your sister. That is why I don’t want to quarrel with you; I wouldn’t grieve Mademoiselle Helen for the world.” Murray gave him a quick, half-angry side-glance. “You are a strange fellow, Gervase. Two summers ago you were almost in love with Helen.” Gervase sighed.