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marriage.
‘Conte di Minghetti’ was merely a papal title—the wealth
of Mary’s husband flowed from his being ruler-owner of
manganese deposits in southwestern Asia. He was not quite
light enough to travel in a pullman south of Mason-Dixon;
he was of the Kyble-Berber-SabaeanHindu strain that belts
across north Africa and Asia, more sympathetic to the Eu-
ropean than the mongrel faces of the ports.
When these princely households, one of the East, one
of the West, faced each other on the station platform, the
splendor of the Divers seemed pioneer simplicity by com-
parison. Their hosts were accompanied by an Italian
major-domo carrying a staff, by a quartet of turbaned re-
tainers on motorcycles, and by two half-veiled females who
stood respectfully a little behind Mary and salaamed at Ni-
cole, making her jump with the gesture.
To Mary as well as to the Divers the greeting was faint-
ly comic; Mary gave an apologetic, belittling giggle; yet her
voice, as she introduced her husband by his Asiatic title,
flew proud and high.
In their rooms as they dressed for dinner, Dick and Ni-
cole grimaced at each other in an awed way: such rich as
want to be thought democratic pretend in private to be
swept off their feet by swank.
‘Little Mary North knows what she wants,’ Dick mut-
tered through his shaving cream. ‘Abe educated her, and
now she’s married to a Buddha. If Europe ever goes Bolshe-
vik she’ll turn up as the bride of Stalin.’
Nicole looked around from her dressing-case. ‘Watch

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