three such as had never yet been prepared in Mustapha!

She and Jeanne were together for more than an hour. Afterward she went
out to watch for the steamer from a point of vantage on the Boulevard
Bleu. Just after one o'clock she saw it gliding toward the harbor over
the glassy sea. Then she went slowly home in the glaring heat, rested,
put on a white gown, very simple but quite charming, and a large white
hat, and went out into the Arab court with a book to await their
arrival.

It was half-past four when a sound struck on her ears, a loud and
trembling chord, a buzz, the rattle of a "cut-out." The blessed noises
drew near. They were certainly in the little by-road which led to the
house. They ceased. She did not move, but sat where she was with a
fast-beating heart.

"Well, this is a cute little snuggery and no mistake!"

It was Crayford's voice in the court of the bougainvillea.

She bent her head and pored over her book. In a moment Alston Lake's
voice said, in French:

"In the garden! No, don't call her, Bibi, we will find her!"

"Look well on the stage that boy!" said Crayford's voice. "No mistake at
all about its being picturesque over here."

Then the two men came in sight in the sunshine. Instantly Alston said,
as he took off his Panama hat:

"You got my wire from Marseilles, Mrs. Charmian?"

"Oh, yes, I was expecting you! But I didn't know when. Mr. Crayford, how
kind of you to come over here in September! No one ever does."

She had got up rather languidly and was holding out her hand.

"Guess it's the proper time to come," said Crayford, squeezing her hand
with his dried-up palm. "See a bit of the real thing! I don't believe
in tourist seasons at all. Tourists always choose the wrong time, seems
to me."

By the look in his eyes as he glanced around him Charmian saw that he
was under the spell of Djenan-el-Maqui.

"You must have tea, iced drinks, whatever you like," she said. "I'm all
alone--as you see."

"What's that?" said Crayford.

"My husband is away."

Crayford's lips pursed themselves. For a moment he looked like a man who
finds he has been "had." In that moment Charmian knew that his real
reason in "running over" to North Africa had certainly been the opera.
She did not suppose he had acknowledged this to Lake, or ever would
acknowledge it to anyone. But she was quite certain of it.

"Gone to England?" asked Crayford, carelessly.

"Oh, no. He's been working too hard, and run aw