For a moment Mr. Greyne started. There seemed a new sound in
Mademoiselle Verbena's voice, a gleam in her dark brown eyes.

"Yes," he said, looking at her in wonder. "But I have not yet told
Abdallah Jack."

The Levantine looked gently sad again.

"Ah," she said in her usual pathetic voice, "how my heart bleeds for
this poor Ouled. By the way, what is her name?"

"Aishoush."

"She is beautiful?"

"I hardly know. She was so painted, so tattooed, so very--so very
different from Mrs. Eustace Greyne."

"How sad! How terrible! Ah, but you must long for the dear bonnet
strings of madame?"

Did he? As she spoke Mr. Greyne asked himself the question. Shocked as
he was, fatigued by his researches, did he wish that he were back again
in Belgrave Square, drinking barley water, pasting notices of his wife's
achievements into the new album, listening while she read aloud from
the manuscript of her latest novel? He wondered, and--how strange, how
almost terrible--he was not sure.

"Is it not so?" murmured Mademoiselle Verbena.

"Naturally I miss my beloved wife," said Mr. Greyne with a certain
awkwardness. "How is your poor, dear mother?"

Tears came at once into the Levantine's eyes.

"Very, very ill, monsieur. Still there is a chance--just a chance that
she may not die. Ah, when I sit here all alone in this strange place, I
feel that she will perish, that soon I shall be quite deserted in this
cruel, cruel world!"

The tears began to flow down her cheeks with determination. Mr. Greyne
was terribly upset.

"You must cheer up," he exclaimed. "You must hope for the best."

"Sitting here alone, how can I?"

She sobbed.

"Sitting here alone--very true!"

A sudden thought, a number of sudden thoughts, struck him.

"You must not sit here alone."

"Monsieur!"

"You must come out. You must drive. You must see the town, distract
yourself."

"But how? Can a--a girl go about alone in Algiers?"

"Heaven forbid! No; I will escort you."

"Monsieur!"

A smile of innocent, girlish joy transformed her face, but suddenly she
was grave again.

"Would it be right, _convenable?_"

Mr. Greyne was reckless. The dog potential rose up in him again.

"Why not? And, besides, who knows us here? Not a soul."

"That is true."

"Put on your bonnet. Let us start at once!"

"But I do not wear the bonnet. I am not like madame."

"To be sure. Your hat."

And as she flew to obey him, Mr. Eustace Greyne found himself impiou