d there a barred window."

"Well, what I mean is that it's almost impossible for any European to
learn what goes on behind those blank walls and those little square
holes, in respectable houses. But we'll hope for the best. And here we
are at my place. I'm rather proud of it."

They had come to the arched gateway of a white-walled garden. The sun
had set fire to the gold of some sunken Arab lettering over the central
arch, so that each broken line darted forth its separate flame. "Djenan
el Djouad; House of the Nobleman," Nevill translated. "It was built for
the great confidant of a particularly wicked old Dey of Algiers, in
sixteen hundred and something, and the place had been allowed to fall
into ruin when my uncle bought it, about twenty or thirty years ago.
There was a romance in his life, I believe. He came to Algiers for his
health, as a young man, meaning to stay only a few months, but fell in
love with a face which he happened to catch a glimpse of, under a veil
that disarranged itself--on purpose or by accident--in a carriage
belonging to a rich Arab. Because of that face he remained in Algiers,
bought this house, spent years in restoring it, exactly in Arab style,
and making a beautiful garden out of his fifteen or sixteen acres.
Whether he ever got to know the owner of the face, history doesn't
state: my uncle was as secretive as he was romantic. But odd things have
been said. I expect they're still said, behind my back. And they're
borne out, I'm bound to confess, by the beauty of the decorations in
that part of the house intended for the ladies. Whether it was ever
occupied in Uncle James's day, nobody can tell; but Aunt Caroline, his
sister, who has the best rooms there now, vows she's seen the ghost of a
lovely being, all spangled gauze and jewels, with silver khal-khal, or
anklets, that tinkle as she moves. I assure my aunt it must be a dream,
come to punish her for indulging in two goes of her favourite sweet at
dinner; but in my heart I shouldn't wonder if it's true. The whole lot
of us, in our family, are romantic and superstitious. We can't help it
and don't want to help it, though we suffer for our foolishness often
enough, goodness knows."

The scent of orange blossoms and acacias was poignantly sweet, as the
car passed an Arab lodge, and wound slowly up an avenue cut through a
grove of blossoming trees. The utmost pains had been taken in the laying
out of the garden, but an effect of carelessnes