“You are married now, I suppose. I remember you were to belong to a young man in Anatolia, to whom you were betrothed when you were an hour old, while he boasted of the great age of seven.”
She sighed. “No, I am not—not yet—although I am getting on in years.”
“Why are you waiting?” I inquired. All my French manners and training had gone. I was again delightfully Oriental, asking personal questions in the most direct way, as I had answered all that had been put to me.
“It is quite a story, and we are nearly there. Since you are not going home, why not come to my house till to-morrow, where I can tell you all about it?”
“I cannot,” I answered. “I must go to my relatives, or there will be too much rumpus, if I am discovered.”
“Very well, then, drive with me first to my house; I will leave the attendants there, tell my mother where I am going, and come with you. In this way we shall have the whole afternoon together. My attendants can call for me in the evening.”
That is how it happened that on reaching the island I drove in a closed carriage with three veiled ladies to the haremlik of Djamal Pasha, and afterwards, with only one, arrived at my cousin’s house.
To my cousin I explained my plight and introduced Chakendé Hanoum. There was no one at home except my cousin and her children. After luncheon Chakendé and I went into the guest-room, where we made ourselves comfortable in loose garments. She braided her long, thick hair in two braids, and put a string of pearls, like a ribbon, over her head. She had clad her slim, young figure in a loose, white pembezar, made quite in French fashion. Cut a little low at the neck, it displayed, besides another string of pearls, a throat full and white, beautiful in shape and in its youthful freshness. She was so good to look upon that I again bethought me of the man for whom she had been destined.
“Now tell me why you are not married,” I said.
She laughed, and sighed again.