Marguerite looked up to the open roof and the stars above it.
“I often wonder what they think when they look down upon this bright square of light beneath them: whether they speculate who live here and why they stay up so late of nights. I fancy sometimes that the mueddin is looking down and watching us as we move about the court.”
She stood for a moment gazing upwards, and then her mood changed.
“One o’clock,” she cried, and running to the clock against the wall, she opened the glass which protected its face and adjusted the hands. “Paul, I’ll give you a whiskey and soda, and you must go.”
She turned to him, trying to laugh gaily, but her voice broke.
“You have to be on parade at six and you have miles to go before you reach your camp.” Her gaiety deserted her altogether. She flung herself into his arms and clung to him, pressing her face against his coat. “Oh, my dear, when shall I see you again? I wish that you weren’t going. Yes, I do! Though I pretend to laugh and to think nothing of it when I am with you, I have been praying for a week with all my heart that something might happen to keep you here.”
“Something has happened,” said Paul.
Marguerite lifted her face.
“You are not going?”
“No.”