Nevill Caird displayed his treasures and the beauties of his domain with
an ingenuous pride, delighted at every word of appreciation, stopping
Stephen here and there to point out something of which he was fond,
explaining the value of certain old tiles from the point of view of an
expert, and gladly lingering to answer every question. Some day, he
said, he was going to write a book about tiles, a book which should have
wonderful illustrations.
"Do you really like it all?" he asked, as Stephen looked out from a
barred window of the loggia, over the wide view.
"I never even imagined anything so fantastically beautiful," Stephen
returned warmly. "You ought to be happy, even if you could never go
outside your own house and gardens. There's nothing to touch this on the
Riviera. It's a palace of the 'Arabian Nights.'"
"There was a palace in the 'Arabian Nights,' if you remember," said
Nevill, "where everything was perfect except one thing. Its master was
miserable because he couldn't get that thing."
"The Roc's egg, of Aladdin's palace," Stephen recalled. "Do you lack a
Roc's egg for yours?"
"The equivalent," said Nevill. "The one thing which I want, and don't
seem likely to get, though I haven't quite given up hope. It's a woman.
And she doesn't want me--or my palace. I'll tell you about her some
day--soon, perhaps. And maybe you'll see her. But never mind my troubles
for the moment. I can put them out of my mind with comparative ease, in
the pleasure of welcoming you.
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