Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly from the face of the speaker to that of Ormuz Khan.  But her scrutiny of those unreadable countenances availed her nothing.  She was conscious of a great and growing uneasiness; and Mrs. McMurdoch, misunderstanding the expression upon her face, squeezed her arm playfully.

“Cheer up, dear,” she whispered; “he will be here soon!”

Phil knew that her face had flushed deeply.  Partly she was glad of her emotions, and partly ashamed.  This sweet embarrassment in which there was a sort of pain was a new experience, but one wholly delightful.  She laughed, and accepting the arm of Ormuz Khan, walked into a very English-looking library, followed by Rama Dass and Mrs. McMurdoch.  The house, she thought, was very silent, and she found herself wondering why no servants had appeared.

Rama Dass had taken charge of the ladies’ cloaks in the hall, and in spite of the typical English environment in which she found herself, Phil sat very near to Mrs. McMurdoch on a settee, scarcely listening to the conversation, and taking no part in it.

For there was a strange and disturbing air of loneliness about Hillside.  She would have welcomed the appearance of a butler or a parlourmaid, or any representative of the white race.  Yes:  there lay the root of the matter—­this feeling of aloofness from all that was occidental, a feeling which the English appointments of the room did nothing to dispel.  Then a gong sounded and the party went in to lunch.

A white-robed Hindu waited at table, and Phil discovered his movements to be unpleasantly silent.  There was something very unreal about it all.  She found herself constantly listening for the sound of an approaching car, of a footstep, of a voice, the voice of Paul Harley.  This waiting presently grew unendurable, and: 

“I hope Mr. Harley is safe,” she said, in a rather unnatural tone.  “Surely he should have returned by now?”

Ormuz Khan shrugged his slight shoulders and glanced at a diamond-studded wrist watch which he wore.

“There is nothing to fear,” he declared, in his soft, musical voice.  “He knows how to take care of himself.  And”—­with a significant glance of his long, magnetic eyes—­“I am certain he will return as speedily as possible.”

Nevertheless, luncheon terminated, and Harley had not appeared.

“You have sometimes expressed a desire,” said Ormuz Khan, “to see the interior of a Persian house.  Permit me to show you the only really characteristic room which I allow myself in my English home.”

Endeavouring to conceal her great anxiety, Phil allowed herself to be conducted by the Persian to an apartment which realized her dreams of that Orient which she had never visited.

Three beautiful silver lanterns depended from a domed ceiling in which wonderfully woven tapestry was draped.  The windows were partly obscured by carved wooden screens, and the light entered through little panels of coloured glass.  There were cushioned divans, exquisite pottery, and a playful fountain plashing in a marble pool.