"My dear child!" she exclaimed, in her deep, pleasant voice, with its slight accent of foreignness which could never quite be defined. "How thankful I am to see you conscious! We have been waiting a long time. You've been ill, and delirious; but I can see from the look in your eyes that it's over now—those dreams of horror I could never persuade you were not real."
Maida looked earnestly at the Head Sister whom she had once so utterly loved and trusted. Did she love and trust her now? The girl felt that she did not. Yet she felt, too, that the sad change might be but the dregs in her cup of dreams. Never had the wonderful woman's voice been more kind. "If I tell you a piece of good news, will it make you better, or will it give you a temperature?" the Head Sister went on.
"It will make me better," Maida said, a faint thrill of hope at her heart. There was only one piece of news, she thought, which would be good.
"Very well, then. It is this: we are expecting your brother and Lord John Hasle in a few days. Are you pleased?"
"Yes," Maida answered. She composed her voice, and spoke quietly; but new life filled her veins. The dullness was gone from her brain, the lassitude from her limbs. She felt as if she had drunk a sparkling tonic.
"You look another girl already," said the Head Sister. "If this improvement keeps up, you'll be able to walk about your room a little to-day, and to-morrow you may be strong enough to be helped out into the balcony that runs along over the patio, and leads to the room of your hostess. She is impatient for you to be well enough to come there; and it will be a test of your strength. Besides—I know you are anxious to hear what you have travelled so far to find out."
Maida could not have explained then, or afterwards, why the Head Sister's suppressed eagerness brought back the fear she had known in her dreams. She would have liked to answer that she preferred to wait and see the unknown "hostess" after Roger and John had arrived. But something told her she had better not say that. Instead, she smiled, and answered that she would try to walk that afternoon, and test her strength.
The Head Sister seemed satisfied, seemed to take it for granted that the plan she was making would be carried out; and then she made an excuse to leave the room. The girl Hateb would watch over Maida, as she had watched faithfully since the day when the unconscious patient had been put into her care. Hateb, the Head Sister added, had learned in Cairo to speak a little English and French. Maida could ask for anything she wished. But for a long time Maida did not wish to ask for anything at all. She lay still and thought—and wondered: and Hateb went on embroidering. She finished a thing like a charming little table cover on which she had worked a design in dull blues and reds, a design like the patterns of old tiles from Tunis. Then, pausing to roll up the square of creamy tissue, she began to make the first purple flower of a new design on another square.
At last, as if fascinated, Maida did ask a question. She asked what Hateb did with these things when they were finished. Were they for her mistress?
The girl shook her head, and managed to make Maida understand that all the women of the household who could embroider sent their work by the negroes into the oasis town of Hathor Set where there was a shop which sold such things to tourists. Very few tourists came now, but sometimes there were officers and soldiers. They always bought souvenirs for their families at home. Harem ladies sold their work for charity among the poor, but their servants—well, it was pleasant to earn something extra. This house was often shut up for months. The master and mistress lived away, and seldom came, so there was much time—too much time—and it hung heavy on their hands unless they were kept busy.