Nevill could marry a _princess_, and she's nothing
but a little school-teacher with a dimple or two, whose mother and
father were less than _nobody_. Still, as Nevill wants her, she might
have the grace to show appreciation of the honour, by not spoiling his
life. He's never been the same since he went and fell in love with her,
and she refused him."
"You've telegraphed to Tlemcen that Nevill is ill?" Stephen ventured.
"I've telegraphed to the creature that she'd better come here at once,
if she wants to see him alive," replied Lady MacGregor. "I suppose she
loves him in her French-Algerian way, and she must have saved up enough
money for the fare. Anyhow, if Nevill doesn't live, I happen to know
he's left her nearly everything, except what the poor boy imagines I
ought to have. That's pouring coals of fire on her head!"
"Don't think of his not living!" exclaimed Stephen.
"Honestly I believe he won't live unless that idiot of a girl comes and
purrs and promises to marry him, deathbed or no deathbed."
Again Stephen smiled faintly. "You're a matchmaker, Lady MacGregor," he
said. "You are one of the most subtle persons I ever saw."
The old lady took this as a compliment. "I haven't lived among Arabs,
goodness knows how many years, for nothing," she retorted. "I
telegraphed for her about five minutes after you wired from Azzouz. In
fact, my telegram went back by the boy who brought yours.
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