Delicia had to pay the penalty of her passion. Her eyes were opened all in good time, and from showering the wealth of her hand and all the treasures of her heart upon Carlyon, she came, in the end, to threatening him with a revolver when he would have healed their differences with a kiss.
The book, as its title implies, ends sadly. How sadly, those who have read it will know, and those who may read it hereafter will soon discover, for it is quite a little book, and its price but a florin.
"These are the people," writes Marie Corelli in "Ziska," alluding to the tourists assembled in Cairo, "who usually leave England on the plea of being unable to stand the cheery, frosty, and in every respect healthy winter of their native country—
"that winter, which with its wild winds, its sparkling
frost and snow, its holly trees bright with
scarlet berries, its merry hunters galloping over field
and moor during daylight hours, and its great log
fires roaring up the chimneys at evening, was sufficiently
good for their forefathers to thrive upon
and live through contentedly up to a hale and hearty
old age in the times when the fever of traveling
from place to place was an unknown disease, and
home was indeed 'sweet home.' Infected by
strange maladies of the blood and nerves, to which
even scientific physicians find it hard to give suitable
names, they shudder at the first whiff of cold,
and, filling huge trunks with a thousand foolish
