With complete unconcern the Arab tossed the knife aside and resumed his pipe, and Carew turned again to Marny with a slight gesture of apology.
“I can recommend old Ibraheim, if you are interested in embroideries, Lady Geradine. Most of his things are genuine, and he has seen you with me—he won’t rob you too unmercifully,” he said, with the first smile he had yet given her. “I was fortunate in finding your horse,” he continued, raising his hand to fend from her the swaying head of a heavily laden camel that lurched past with a snarling grunt of ill-humour, “but, if you will permit me to say so, I strongly advise you not to ride him again unattended. His worth and pedigree are well known, and there are a number of Arabs in and about Algiers who are very averse to valuable stallions being sold out of the country. It is only natural when you come to think of it! I should hold the same view myself—were I an Arab.”
“You are very like one.” The words escaped her involuntarily and she glanced at him quickly, fearful that he would think her impertinent. But he did not appear to resent the comparison and taking courage she yielded to the longing that came over her to learn more of the man who had come so strangely into her life.
“You have lived much amongst them?” she suggested diffidently. His curt assent was not conducive to further questioning but her wistful interest overcame her shyness.
“In the desert—the real desert?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes, in the real desert,” he answered shortly, a slight frown gathering on his face. And as if regretting the slight lapse from his former rigidity of manner he seemed to draw once more into himself, cold and unapproachable as he had been at first. And, flushing sensitively, Marny relapsed into silence that lasted until they reached the rue Randon. A passing victoria plying for hire rattled up in response to Carew’s signal, and he had placed her in it almost before she realized that they were clear of the Casbar.
For a moment she leant forward without speaking, looking at him as he stood bareheaded on the pavement beside her. Then she thrust her hand out to him with a brusque boyish gesture.
“Thank you—for all you’ve done,” she said shakily, her lips trembling despite her efforts to keep them steady.
For the fraction of a second he hesitated, staring gloomily at the little outstretched hand, then his tall figure stiffened suddenly and, drawing back with a deep un-English bow, he signed to the Arab coachman to drive on.