a little gesture of weary impotence. Out of the dark
draperies her hands were like white fluttering butterflies.

"What can I do?"

"I should think you could do the Old Harry of a lot."

"Weep?" said the girl with a pale irony not lost upon him.

"Weep--or row. Or run," he added, almost reluctantly.

She turned away her head. "I know, I thought once that I could run.
For that I stole the key to this gate. But where would I run,
monsieur? I have neither friends, nor--nor the resources.... There
have been girls--two sisters--who ran away last year--but they were
already married and they had cousins in France. For me, my cousins
do not exist. I do not know my mother's family. They disowned her
for her marriage, my father says. And so--but it is not possible to
evade this.... It is not possible. This marriage is required."

"Required--rot! Can't you--don't you--" he paused, looking down upon
her in tremendous and serious uncertainty. The impulse was strong
upon him to tell her that he would help her. The accents of her
voice had seemed to tear at his very heart.

It was utter madness. Where, in the map of Africa, would he hide
her? And how would he take care of her? What would he do to her?
Make love to her? Marry her? Take home a wife from an Egyptian
harem--a surprising acquisition with which to startle and enchant
his decorous family in East Middleton!

And a pretty end to his work here, his reputation, his
responsibilities--

It was madness. And the fact that the thought had presented itself,
even for his flouting mockery, indicated that he was mad. He told
himself to be careful. Better men than he had everlastingly done for
themselves because upon a night of stars and moonshine some
dark-eyed girl had played the very devil with their common sense.

He reminded himself that he had never set eyes on her until last
night, that she might be the consummate perfection of a minx, that
there might not be a word of truth in all of this.

This general, now! Sudden. Not a word about it last night. And now--

He had an inkling that even Mohammedan fathers do not rush matters
at such a pace.

For all he knew the girl might be inventing this general--for some
artless reasons of her own. For all he knew she might be married to
him and desirous of escape.

But he didn't believe it. She was too young and shy and virginal.
The accents of her candor rebuked his skepticism. He merely told
himself these things because th