“Who know nothing of the fundamental law,” said Lucilla. So they went along a spur of the terrace, a sort of rococo bastion guarding the entrance to the hotel, and there they found solitude. They sat beneath the velvet, star-hung sky. Fifty yards away flowed the Nile, with now and then a flashing ripple. From a ghyassa with ghostly white sail creeping down the river came an Arab chant. The flowers of the bougainvillea on the hotel porch gleamed dim and pale. A touch of khamsin gave languor to the air. Lucilla drew off her gloves, bade him put them down for her. He preferred to keep them warm and fragrant, a part of herself. “Now about this fundamental law,” she said in her lazy contralto. Her hand hung carelessly, temptingly over the arm of her chair. Graciously she allowed him to take and hold it. “Surely you know.” “I want you to tell me, Mr. Philosopher.” He dallied with the adorable situation. “Since when have I become Master and you Pupil, Lucilla?” “Since you began, presumably to plunge deep into profundities of wisdom where I can’t follow you. Behold me at your feet.” He moved his chair close to hers and she allowed him to play with her slender fingers. “The fundamental law of life,” said he, bending towards her, “is love.” “I wonder!” said Lucilla. She lay in the long chair, her head against the back. He drew her fingers to his lips. “I’m sure of it. I’m sure of it as I’m sure that there’s a God in Heaven, as that,” he whispered, in what the sophisticated may term an anti-climax, “there’s a goddess on earth.” “Who is the goddess?” she murmured. “You,” said he. “I like being called a goddess,” she said, “especially after dancing the two-step. Hymns Ancient and Modern.” “Do you know what is the most ancient hymn in the world?” “No.” “Shall I tell you?” “Am I not here to be instructed?” “You are beautiful and I love you. You are wonderful and I love you. You are adorable and I love you.” “How did you learn to become so lyrical?” Martin knew not. He was embarked on the highest adventure of his life. A super-Martin seemed to speak. Her tone was playful, not ironical. It encouraged him to flights more lyrical still. In the daylight of reason what he said was amazing nonsense. Beneath the Egyptian stars, in the atmosphere drowsy with the scents of the East and the touch of khamsin it sounded to receptive ears beautifully romantic. Through the open door came the strains of an old-fashioned waltz, perhaps meretricious, but in the exotic surroundings sensuous and throbbing with passion. He bent over her and now possessed both hands. “All that I feel for you, all that you are to me,” he said, concluding his rhapsody. Then, as she made no reply, he asked: “You aren’t angry with me?” “I’m not a granite sphinx,” she said, in her low voice. “No one has ever said things like that to me before. I don’t say men haven’t tried. They have; but they’ve always made themselves ridiculous. I’ve always wanted to laugh at them.”