"Well, if you get that far, will you come with me to the Riviera, or to
Florence, or Sicily--or Cairo?" the other asked, adjusting her gold-brown
wig with her babyish hands.
Cairo! Cairo! A light shot up into Hylda's eyes. The Duchess had spoken
without thought, but, as she spoke, she watched the sudden change in
Hylda. What did it mean? Cairo--why should Cairo have waked her so?
Suddenly she recalled certain vague references of Lord Windlehurst, and,
for the first time, she associated Hylda with Claridge Pasha in a way
which might mean much, account for much, in this life she was leading.
"Perhaps! Perhaps!" answered Hylda abstractedly, after a moment.
The Duchess got to her feet. She had made progress. She would let her
medicine work.
"I'm going to bed, my dear. I'm sixty-five, and I take my sleep when I
can get it. Think it over, Sicily--Cairo!"
She left the room, saying to herself that Eglington was a fool, and that
danger was ahead. "But I hold a red light--poor darling!" she said aloud,
as she went up the staircase.
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