he sat down by her, and they began to talk. Unlike Mrs.
Chetwinde, Mrs. Clarke showed that she was alertly attending to all that
was said to her, and, when she spoke, she looked at the person to whom
she was speaking, looked steadily and very unself-consciously. Dion
mentioned that he had once been to Constantinople.

"Did you care about it?" said Mrs. Clarke, rather earnestly.

"I'm afraid I disliked it, although I found it, of course, tremendously
interesting. In fact, I almost hated it."

"That's only because you stayed in Pera," she answered, "and went about
with a guide."

"But how do you know?"--he was smiling.

"Well, of course you did."

"Yes."

"I could easily make you love it," she continued, in an oddly impersonal
way, speaking huskily.

Dion had never liked huskiness before, but he liked it now.

"You are fond of it, I believe?" he said.

His eyes met hers with a great deal of interest.

He considered her present situation an interesting one; there was drama
in it; there was the prospect of a big fight, of great loss or great
gain, destruction or vindication.

In her soul already the drama was being played. He imagined her soul in
turmoil, peopled with a crowd of jostling desires and fears, and he was
thinking a great many things about her, and connected with her, almost
simultaneously--so rapidly a flood of thoughts seemed to go by in the
mind--as he put his question.

"Yes, I am," replied Mrs. Clarke. "Stamboul holds me very fast in its
curiously inert grip. It's a grip like this."

She held out her small right hand, and he put his rather large and
sinewy brown hand into it. The small hand folded itself upon his in a
curious way--feeble and fierce at the same time, it seemed--and held
him. The hand was warm, almost hot, and soft, and dry as a fire is
dry--so dry that it hisses angrily if water is thrown on it.

"Now, you are trying to get away," she said. "And of course you can,
but----"

Dion made a movement as if to pull away his hand, but Mrs. Clarke
retained it. How was that? He scarcely knew; in fact he did not know.
She did not seem to be doing anything definite to keep him, did not
squeeze or grip his hand, or cling to it; but his hand remained in hers
nevertheless.

"There," she said, letting his hand go. "That is how Stamboul holds. Do
you understand?"

Mrs. Chetwinde's vague eyes had been on them during this little episode.
Dion had had time to see that, and to think, "No