The Sheik

But what she had done then was impossible now. He seemed so utterly

strange, so different from the man whom she thought she had grown to

understand. She was all at sea. She was desperately tired, her head

aching and confused with the terrible problems of the future. She dared

not think any more. She only wanted to lie in his arms and sob her

heart out against his. She was starving for the touch of his hands,

suffering horribly.

She slid down on to her knees, burying her face in the couch.

"Oh, God! Give me his love!" she kept whispering in agonised entreaty,

until the recollection of the night, months before, when in the same

posture she had prayed that God's curse might fall on him, sent a

shudder through her.

"I didn't mean if," she moaned. "Oh, clear God! I didn't mean it. I

didn't know.... Take it back. I didn't mean it."

She choked down the sobs that rose, pressing her face closer into the

silken coverings.

There was silence in the next room except for the striking of a match

that came with monotonous regularity. And always the peculiar scent of

his tobacco drifting in through the heavy curtains, forcing a hundred

recollections with the association of its perfume. Why didn't he come

to her? Did he know how he was torturing her? Was he so utterly

indifferent that he did not care what she suffered? Did he even think

of her, to wonder if she suffered or not? The fear of the future rushed

on her again with overwhelming force. The uncertainty was killing her.

She raised her head and looked at the travelling clock beside the

reading-lamp. It was an hour since Gaston had left him. Another hour of

waiting would drive her mad. She must know what he was going to do. She

could bear anything but this suspense. She had reached the limit of her

endurance. She struggled to her feet, drawing the thin wrap closer

around her. But even then she stood irresolute, dreading the fulfilling

of her fears; she had not the courage voluntarily to precipitate her

fate. She clung to her fool's paradise. Her eyes were fixed on the

clock, watching the hands drag slowly round the dial. A quarter of an

hour crept past. It seemed the quarter of a lifetime, and Diana brushed

her hand across her eyes to clear away the dazzling reflection of the

staring white china face with its long black minute hand. No sound of

any kind came now from the other room. The silence was driving her

frantic. She was desperate; she must know, nothing could be worse than

the agony she was enduring.