The Sheik

"Excuse me," she said coldly, "my ideas cannot possibly interest you."

"On the contrary, you interest me profoundly," he corrected quickly.

She noticed the slight difference in his words and laughed more

bitterly than before. "As what?--a subject for vivisection? Get on your

operating coat and bring your instruments without delay. The victim is

all ready for you. It will be 'copy' for your next book!"

"Madame!"

He had sprung to his feet, and she looked up at him miserably, her hand

held out in swift contrition. "Oh, forgive me! I shouldn't have said

that. You haven't deserved it. You have been--kind. I am grateful.

Forgive me and my rudeness. It must be the heat, it makes one very

irritable, don't you think?"

He ignored her pitiful little subterfuge and raised her outstretched,

quivering fingers to his lips. "If you will honour me with your

friendship," he said, with a touch of the old-world chivalry that was

often noticeable in him, "my life is at your service."

But as he spoke his voice changed. The touch of her cold fingers sent a

rush of feeling through him that for an instant overpowered him.

She let her hand lie in his, and for a few moments she avoided his eyes

and looked down at the rough head in her lap. Then she met his gaze

frankly. "Your offer is too rare a thing to put on one side. If you

will be my friend, as you are Monseigneur's friend----" she faltered,

turning her head away, and her fingers lying in his trembled slightly.

He started and crushed the hand he was holding unknowingly, as the

thought was forced on him. Monseigneur's friend! He realized that in

the last few moments he had forgotten the Sheik, had forgotten

everything, swept off his feet by an intense emotion that staggered him

with its unexpectedness, except the loveliness and helplessness of the

girl beside him. His head was reeling; his calmness, his loyalty, his

earlier feelings of dispassionate pity had given way to an extreme

agitation that was rushing him headlong and threatening to overwhelm

him. His heart beat furiously and he clenched his teeth, fighting to

regain his usual sang-froid. The emotional temperament that

Diana had divined from his novel had sprung uppermost with a bound,

overthrowing the rigid repression of years. The blood beat in his ears

as he strove to master himself, to crush the madness that had come upon

him.

He had closed his eyes with the shock of self-revelation, he opened

them now and looked down at her hesitatingly, almost fearfully,

clasping her hand closer in his and leaning nearer to her, drawn

irresistibly by the intoxication of her nearness. He saw her through a

mist that cleared gradually, saw that she was ignorant of the emotion

she had awakened in him, and, conscious only of his sympathy, had left

her hand in his as she would have left it in her brother's. She was

bent low over the hound, her face almost touching his big head, and as

Saint Hubert looked a glistening tear dropped on Kopec's rough, grey

neck. She had forgotten him, forgotten even that he was standing beside

her, in the one predominant thought that filled her mind. With an

immense effort he got command of himself. Somehow he must conquer this

sudden insanity.