d surely not be thought pretty by
any man who was familiar with the beauties of Europe and America, this
face with its heavy features, its sultry, sullen eyes, its plump cheeks,
and sensual lips?

Yes, he could. As she looked, with the horrible intuition of a
feverishly strung up and excited woman Mrs. Armine felt the fascination
such a creature held to tug at a man like Baroudi. Here was surely no
mind, but only a body containing the will, inherited from how many
Ghawazee ancestors, to be the plaything of man; a well-made body, yes,
even beautifully made, with no heaviness such as showed in the face, a
body that could move lightly, take supple attitudes, dance, posture,
bend, or sit up straight, as now, with the perfect rigidity of an idol;
a body that could wear rightly cascades of wonderfully tinted draperies,
and spangled, vaporous tissues, and barbaric jewels, that do not shine
brightly as if reflecting the modern, restless spirit, but that are
somnolent and heavy and deep, like the eyes of the Eastern women of
pleasure.

The player upon the desert lute had not seen that some one stood in the
tent door. With half-shut eyes he continued playing and singing, lost in
a sickly ecstasy. The woman on the gaudy rug sat quite still and stared
at Mrs. Armine. She showed no surprise, no anger, no curiosity. Her
expression did not change. Her motionless, painted mouth was set like a
mouth carved in some hard material. Only her bosom stirred with a
regular movement beneath her coloured tissues, her jewels and strings of
coins.

Mrs. Armine stepped into the tent and dropped the flap behind her. She
did not know what she was going to do, but she was filled with a bitter
curiosity that she could not resist, with an intense desire to force her
way into this woman's life, a life so strangely different from her own,
yet linked with it by Baroudi. She hated this woman, yet with her hatred
was mingled a subtle admiration, a desire to touch this painted toy that
gave him pleasure, a longing to prove its attraction, to plumb the depth
of its fascination, to learn from it a lesson in the strange lore of the
East. She came close up to the woman and stood beside her.

Instantly one of the painted hands went up to her jacket, and gently,
very delicately, touched its fur. Then the other hand followed, and the
jacket was felt with wondering fingers, was stroked softly, first
downwards, then upwards, while the dark and heavy eyes solemnly