to do with his privacies. That was my last word to him.
"The moment I feel sure that I may do something for your brother's happiness—your brother's alone—by pleading his cause with Eunice—that moment I will speak to her. But I can do nothing for yours."
In answer to this, Mr. Caliph said something very unexpected. "I wish I had known you five years ago!"
There are many meanings to that; perhaps he would have liked to put me out of the way. But I could take only the polite meaning. "Our acquaintance could never have begun too soon."
"Yes, I should have liked to know you," he went on, "in spite of the fact that you are not kind, that you are not just. Have I asked you to do anything for my happiness? My happiness is nothing. I have nothing to do with happiness. I don't deserve it. It is only for my little brother—and for your charming cousin."
I was obliged to admit that he was right; that he had asked nothing for himself. "But I don't want to do anything for you even by accident!" I said—laughing, of course.
This time he was grave. He stood looking at me a moment, then put out his hand. "Yes, I wish I had known you!"
There was something so expressive in his voice, so handsome in his face, so tender and respectful in his manner, as he said this, that for an instant I was
