"You seem to be something of an epicure, Mahmoud Baroudi," she said. "I suppose you have heard of Armand Carrier?"
"The best chef in Europe, madame? How should I not have heard of him among my friends of Paris?"
"He was in my service for five years."
There was a pause. Nigel suddenly turned red. Baroudi moved his large eyes slowly from Mrs. Armine to him, and at length observed calmly: "I felicitate you both. You must have had a treasure. But why did you let him go?"
He addressed the question to Nigel.
"He was not in my service," said Nigel, with a sudden, very English stiffness that was almost like haughtiness. "It was long before we were married."
"Oh--I see. But what a pity! Then you did not have the benefit of eating his marvellous plats."
"No. I don't care about that sort of thing."
"Really!"
They talked of other matters, but Nigel had lost all his bonhomie, and seemed unable to recover it.
Baroudi, like a good Mohammedan, declined to drink any wine, but when the fruit was brought, Mrs. Armine got up.
"I'll leave you for a little while," she said. "You'll find me on the terrace. Although Mahmoud Baroudi drinks nothing, I am sure he likes men's talk better than woman's chatter."
Baroudi politely but rather perfunctorily denied this.
"But what do you say," he added, "to coming as my guest to take a cup of coffee and a liqueur at the Winter Palace Hotel? To-night there is the first performance of a Hungarian band which I introduced last winter to Egypt, and which--I am told; I am not, perhaps, a judge of your Western music--plays remarkably. What do you say? Would it please you, madame?"
"Yes, do let us go. Shan't we go?"
She turned to Nigel.
"Of course," he said, "if you like. But can you walk in that dress?"
She nodded.
"It's perfectly dry outside. I'll come down in a moment."
She was away for nearly ten; then she returned, wrapped up in a marvellous ermine coat, and wearing on her head a yellow toque with a high aigrette at one side.
"I'm ready now," she said.
"What a beautiful coat!" Nigel said.
He had not seen it before. He gently smoothed it with his brown fingers. Then he looked at her, took them away, and stepped back rather abruptly.
When they arrived at the great hotel the band was already playing in the hall, and a number of people, scattered about in little detached groups, were listening to it and drinking Turkish coffee. It was very early in the season. The rush up the Nile had not begun, and travellers had not yet cemented their travelling acquaintanceships. People looked at each other rather vaguely, or definitely ignored each other, with profiles and backs which said quite plainly: "We won't have anything to do with you until we know more about you." The entrance of the party from the Villa Androud created a strong diversion. As soon as Baroudi was perceived by the attendants, there was a soft and gliding movement to serve him. The tall Nubians in white and scarlet smiled, salaamed, and showed their pleasure and their desire for his notice. The German hall porter hastened forward, with a pink smile upon his countenance; the chef d'orchestre, a real Hungarian, began to play at him with fervour; and a black gentleman in gold and scarlet, who looked like a Prince of the East, but who was really earning his living in connection with the lift to the first floor, bounded to show them to a table.