The Sheik

"Va," he said gently, "depeche-toi."

She looked after him as he went through the curtains with a long,

sobbing sigh. She was paying a heavy price for her happiness, but she

would have paid a heavier one willingly. Nothing mattered now that he

was not angry any more. She knew what her total submission meant: it

was an end to all individualism, a complete self-abnegation, an

absolute surrender to his wishes, his moods and his temper. And she was

content that it should be so, her love was prepared to endure whatever

he might put upon her. Nothing that he could do could alter that, and

nothing should make her own her love. She had hidden it from him, and

she would hide it from him--cost what it might. Though he did not love

her he wanted her still; she had read that in his eyes five minutes

ago, and she was happy even for that.

She turned to the glass suddenly and wrenched the silk folds off her

shoulder. She looked at the marks of his fingers on the delicate skin

with a twist of the lips, then shut her eyes with a little gasp and hid

her bruised arm hastily, her mouth quivering. But she did not blame

him, she had brought it on herself; she knew his mood, and he did not

know his own strength.

"If he killed me he could not kill my love," she murmured, with a

little pitiful smile.

The men were waiting for her, and with a murmured apology for her

lateness she took her place. The Sheik and his guest resumed the

conversation that her entrance had interrupted. Diana's thoughts were

in confusion. She felt as if she were in some wild, improbable dream.

An Arab Sheik, a French explorer, and herself playing the conventional

hostess in the midst of lawless unconventionalism. She looked around

the tent that had become so familiar, so dear. It seemed different

to-night, as if the advent of the stranger had introduced a foreign

atmosphere. She had grown so accustomed to the routine that had been

imposed upon her that even the Vicomte's servant standing behind his

master seemed strange. The man's likeness to his twin brother was

striking, the only difference being that while Gaston's face was

clean-shaven, Henri's upper lip was hidden by a neat, dark moustache.

The service was, as always, perfect, silent and quick.

She glanced at the Sheik covertly. There was a look on his face that

she had never seen and a ring in his voice that was different even from

the tone she had heard when Gaston had come back on the night of her

flight. That had been relief and the affection of a man for a valued

servant, this was the deep affection of a man for the one chosen

friend, the love passing the love of women. And the jealousy she had

felt in the morning welled up uncontrollably. She looked from the Sheik

to the man who was absorbing all his attention, but in his pale, clever

face, half hidden by the close beard, she saw no trace of the

conceited, smirking egotist she had imagined, and his voice, as low as

the Sheik's, but more animated, was not the voice of a man unduly

elated or conscious of himself. And as she looked her eyes met his. A

smile that was extraordinarily sweet and half-sad lit up his face.