No, everyone is dead. His mother worshipped him, but she died when he was scarcely eighteen, and his father before that. His mother is his adored memory. In all the mad scenes which he and his companions, I am afraid, have enacted in the Fontonka house, there is one set of rooms no one has dared to enter—her rooms—and he keeps flowers there, and an ever-burning lamp.

The Sphinx was smiling its eternal smile. It was two o’clock in the morning. The tourists had returned to Cairo, and only an Arab or two lingered near the boy who held Tamara’s camel, and then gradually slunk away; thus, but for Hafis, she was alone-alone with her thoughts and the Sphinx.

“Prince Milas Lovski,” Tamara heard an acquaintance say… while one of his friends called him “Gritzko.” The name fell pleasantly on her ears - “Gritzko”… Why was he such a wretch as to humiliate her so? She felt horribly small. She ought never to have let him speak to her, when viewing the Sphinx. She was being thoroughly punished for her unconventionality now!

When the music started, she found herself dancing with a fierce Russian Count in green and silver. He held her tightly, exclaiming how beautifully she danced. They stopped, when quite out of breath, where the screened windows half-hid the poor ladies of the harem who watched the throng from their safe retreat.

The Count and Tamara bowed. Then a voice said close to her ear, “May I, too, have the honor of a turn, Madame?” - and she looked up into the eyes of the Prince.