She wrestled with herself. The weakness that she had given way to must
be conquered. She knew that, without any possibility of doubt, his
coming would seal her fate--whatever it was to be. She must wait until
then. A long, shuddering sigh ran through her. "Ahmed! Ahmed Ben
Hassan," she murmured slowly, lingering with wistful tenderness on the
words. She pressed her face closer into the cushions, clasping her
hands over her head, and for a long time lay very still. The heat was
intense and every moment the tent seemed to grow more airless. The room
was stifling, and, with a little groan, Diana sat up, pushing the heavy
hair oft her damp forehead, and covered her flushed face with her
hands.
A cicada began its shrill note close by, chirping with maddening
persistency. Quite suddenly her mind was filled with thoughts of her
own people, the old home in England, the family for whose honour her
ancestors had been so proudly jealous. Even Aubrey, lazy and
self-indulgent as he was, prized the family honour as he prized nothing
else on earth; and now she, proud Diana Mayo, who had the history of
her race at her fingers' ends, who had gloried in the long line of
upright men and chaste women, had no thankfulness in her heart that in
her degradation she had been spared a crowning shame. Beside her love
everything dwindled into nothingness. He was her life, he filled her
horizon. Honour itself was lost in the absorbing passion of her love.
He had stripped it from her and she was content that it should lie at
his feet. He had made her nothing, she was his toy, his plaything,
waiting to be thrown aside. She shuddered again and looked around the
tent that she had shared with him with a bitter smile and sad, hunted
eyes.... After her--who? The cruel thought persisted. She was torn with
a mad, primitive jealousy, a longing to kill the unknown woman who
would inevitably succeed her, a desire that grew until a horror of her
own feelings seized her, and she shrank down, clasping her hands over
her ears to shut out the insidious voice that seemed actually
whispering beside her. The Persian hound in the next room had whined
uneasily from time to time, and now he pushed his way past the curtain
and stalked across the thick rugs. He nuzzled his shaggy head against
her knee, whimpering unhappily, looking up into her face. And when she
noticed him he reared up and flung his long body across her lap,
thrusting his wet nose into her face. She caught his head in her hands
and rubbed her cheek against his rough hair, crooning over him softly.
Even the dog was comfort in her loneliness, and they both waited for
their master.