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When Martin reached the upper air he found t

hat Lucilla had already arrived and had gone to her room for rest. He only saw her when she came down late for dinner. She was dressed in a close-fitting charmeuse gown of a strange blue shade like an Egyptian evening. Her pleasant greeting differed no whit from that of twenty-four hours ago. Not by the flicker of a brown eyelash did she betray recollection of last night’s imp

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cursion to the eager and reproachful group.

A sandstorm had ruined a masterpiece, her best brushes, her hair and old Hassan’s temper. She had swallowed half Sahara with her food. Her very donkey, cocking round an angry eye, had called her the most opprobrious term in his vocabulary—an ass. Altogether she had enjoyed herself immensely. “You ought to have come, Martin,” she said coolly. He made the obvious retort. “

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ly you had been up at dawn,” she laughed.

“I was,” he replied. “I lay awake most of the night and I saw the sunrise from my bedroom window.” “Oh, dear!” she sighed. “You were looking the wrong way. You were adoring the East while I was going out to the West.” “All that is very pretty, but I’m dying of hunger,” said Watney-Holcombe, carrying her off to the dining room. The rest followed. At table, she sat

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t Martin had no private speech with her. Aft

er dinner Watney-Holcombe and Dangerfield wandered off to the bar to play billiards. Martin declining an invitation to join them remained with the four ladies in the lounge. Lucilla had man?uvred herself into an unassailable position between the two married women. Martin and Maisie sat sketchily on the outskirts behind the coffee table. The band discoursed unexhilarating music.