of black blood somewhere in him—Egyptian or something—and part of his success is due to the fact that he can pass as a native among the Arabs—like Burton, you know. He's governor of some district down in the desert. Good-looking chap."
"Tell me his name," said Teresa.
"Crayven—that's all I know of it."
Teresa judged his age to be about thirty-five, though in expression he looked older—looked, in fact, any age. His face, with all the fineness and delicacy of its lines, was strong. His fore- head and eyes showed intellectual force ; his eyes were frank and simple, it seemed to Teresa, on this second view, and his mouth gentle. He interested Teresa, partly because of the extreme quiet and repose of his manner. Whether he was talking to Mrs. Kerr or to Mary Addams, whom he seemed to find attractive, or listening, which he seemed to prefer, he suggested somehow a world different from this. Teresa's imagination was stirred by the few facts she had heard about him. A simpler, a less nervous life, more primitive and harsher externals, more space and freedom, might be his proper setting. She fancied she saw in his face, in spite of its gentleness, the habit of command. His grey-brown colour and the lines about his eyes made her think of the glare of sun on the desert.
Dinner was nearly over when for the first time
