Too well-bred to examine Martin on his friend’s private affairs, she changed the talk in her quick, imperious way. Martin sat like a man bewitched, fascinated by her remembered beauties—the lazy music of her voice, her mobile lips, her brown eyelashes. . . . His heart beat at the realisation of so many dreams. He listened, his brain scarcely following what she said; that she spoke with the tongue of an angel was enough. Presently a stout, pleasant-faced woman of thirty came towards them with many apologies for lateness. This was Mrs. Dangerfield. Lucilla presented Martin. “Behold in me the complete dragoman. Mr. Overshaw has engaged me for the season. It’s his first visit to Egypt and I’m going to show him round. I’ll draw up a programme for a personally conducted tour, every hour accounted for and replete with distraction.” “It sounds dreadful,” laughed Mrs. Dangerfield. “Do you think you’ll survive, Mr. Overshaw?” “Not only that,” said Martin, “but I hope for a new lease of life.” “We start,” said Lucilla, “with a drive through the town, during which I shall point out the Kasr-el-Nil Barracks, the Bank of Egypt and the Opera House. Then we shall enter on the shopping expedition in the Mousky, where I shall prevent Mrs. Dangerfield from being robbed while bargaining for Persian lacq. I’m ready, Laura, if you are.” She led the way out. Martin exchanging words of commonplace with Mrs. Dangerfield, followed in an ecstasy. Did ever woman, outside Botticelli’s _Primavera_, walk with such lissomeness? A chasseur turned the four-flanged doors and they emerged into the clear morning sunshine. The old bearded Arab carriage porter called an hotel _arabeah_ from the stand. But while the driver, correct in metal-buttoned livery coat and tarbush, was dashing up with his pair, Martin caught sight of Fortinbras walking towards them. “There he is,” said Martin. “Who?” “Fortinbras.” “Nonsense,” said Lucilla. “That’s an English Cabinet Minister, or an American millionaire, or the keeper of a gambling saloon.” But when he came nearer, she admitted it was Fortinbras. She waved her hand in recognition. Nothing could have been more charming than her greeting; nothing more urbane than his acknowledgment, or his bow, on introduction to Mrs. Dangerfield. He had come, said he, to lay his respectful homage at her feet; also to see how his young friend was faring in a strange land. Lucilla asked him where he was staying. “When last I saw you,” he answered, “I said something about the perch of the old vulture.” She eyed him, smiling: “You look more like the wanton lapwing.” “In that case I need even a smaller perch, the merest twig.” “But ‘Merest Twig, Cairo,’ isn’t an address,” cried Lucilla. “How am I to get hold of you when I want you?”