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"None of us has the slightest connection to any of it," he said. "They must all be allowed to go home. I can stay here, if it's absolutely necessary, but my son must be allowed to leave."

Gerald, ten years his senior, white-haired and heavy about the middle, listened keenly. He was a man not given to strong drink, who tended to work round the clock so that his family might enjoy every pleasurable aspect of colonial existence.

"Of course not," he said now, with complete sympathy. "But wait, there's Winthrop in the doors. He has two men with him."

"I can't talk to him!" Elliott said. "Not now, for the love of heaven."

"You leave it to me completely."

How astonished they were when she paid them in advance with piles and piles of the strange money they called "pound notes," though they weighed nothing. The young servants would take her many bundles to her suite, they said. And indeed, there were kitchens working now to produce whatever food she desired; there lay the dining room to the right; and she could banquet in her room if that was her wish. As for the hairdresser which she dearly required to tie up her hair, that lady would not be available until tomorrow. Very well. Thank you!

She dropped the key into her satin bag. She would find suite number 201 later. She hurried to the door of the dark room into which Lord Rutherford had gone, and spied him drinking there alone. He did not see her.

Out on the broad front terrace, she could see his son, Alex, leaning against the white pillar--such a comely youth--in fast conversation with a dark-skinned Egyptian. The Egyptian came back into the hotel. The young one seemed at a loss.

She went to him immediately. She crept up and stood beside him and studied his delicate face--yes, a beauty. Of course Lord Rutherford was a man of considerable charm; but this one was so young that his skin was still petal soft, and yet he was tall and his shoulders were strong and straight, and he had a clear, confident look in his brown eyes when he turned to her.

"The young Viscount Summerfield," she said. "Son of Lord Rutherford, I am told?"

A great flash of a smile. "I'm Alex Savarell, yes. Forgive me, I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"I'm hungry, Viscount Summerfield. Won't you show me to the banquet room of the hotel? I should like to eat something."

"I'd be delighted! What an unexpected pleasure."

He hooked his arm for her to take it. Oh, she liked him very much; there was no reticence in him at all. He escorted her back into the crowded main room, past the dark tavern where his father drank, and on towards a great open place under a high gilded ceiling.

Tables draped in linen filled the sides of the immense room. In the centre men and women danced, the women's skirts like great softly ruffled flowers. And the music, oh, so lovely, though it almost hurt her ears. It was far more shrill than that of the music box. And it was sweetly sad!

At once he asked an imperious old man to show them to a "table." What an ugly person was this imperious man who appeared as finely dressed as anyone present. But he said, "Yes, Lord Summerfield" with great respect. And the table was fine indeed, set with gorgeous plate, and sweet-scented flowers.

"What is this music?" she asked.

"From America," he said. "From Sigmund Romberg."

She began rocking back and forth a little.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

"That would be super!"

Oh, such a warm hand he had as he clasped hers and led her out on the floor. How peculiar that each couple should be dancing as if entirely alone and engaged in a private ritual. At once the melancholy rhythm swept her up. And this adorable young man, how lovingly he looked at her. This really was a lovely young man, this Alex, Lord Summerfield.

"How enchanting it is here," she said. "A true palace. And the music, so piercing, but beautiful. It hurts my ears, but then I do not like loud noises--screeching birds, guns!"

"Of course you don't," he said with surprise. "You're such a fragile creature. And your hair, may I tell that your hair is lovely? It's a rare thing to see a woman who wears her hair free, and natural. It makes you look like a goddess."

"Yes, that is very okay. Thank you."

He had a sweet laugh. So honest. No fear in his eyes, no shrinking. He was like a prince who had been reared with kind nurses in a palace. Altogether too gentle for the real world.

"Would you mind terribly telling me your name?" he asked. "I know we've not been properly introduced, so we must introduce ourselves, it seems."

"My name is Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt." How she loved this dancing, being carried along, turned about; the floor shimmered like water beneath her.

"Oh, I could almost believe you," he said. "You look like a Queen. May I call you Your Highness?"

She laughed. "Your Highness. Is that the proper address for a Queen! Yes, you may call me Your Highness. And I shall call you Lord Summerfield. These men here, are they all ... lords?"