She nestled luxuriously in his arms, crooning endearments, melting and passionate, sweeter than honey in the honey-comb. It grew dark and cold. He went to the door and called for the brazier.
“And tea,” Ourida added. “I would serve you with tea, my heart’s joy.”
The negress brought both.
Ourida rubbed her head against his shoulder. “Sweetmeats?” she cooed.
He jerked his last blanquils to the slave with the order.
Ourida squatted cross-legged on a pile of cushions and poured out the sweet mint tea, handed him his cup with a mock salaam. He did obeisance as before a Sultana, and she rippled with delight. They made long complimentary speeches to each other after the manner of the court, played with each other’s hands, were very childish and merry.
Ourida pressed a second cup of tea on him. He drank it off at a gulp and lay down at her side.
“Rest here and be comfortable,” said she, drawing his head to her.
“Tell me again about that battle with the Bou Khari.”
He told her in detail, omitting the salient fact that his horse had bolted with him, though, in truth, he had almost forgotten it himself by now.