Half hidden in a haze of cigar smoke and aggressively wide awake Geradine hailed his appearance with no more civility than before.
“Clear out those cursed beasts,” he shouted truculently. “I can’t sleep in a damned stable! And get me something to eat. Something—to—eat. Quelque chose à manger, comprenez?—you blasted fool!” he added, pantomiming vigorously. The blood rolled in a dark wave to Carew’s face but determined to keep his temper he swallowed the retort that sprang to his lips and gave the required orders with apparent unconcern. But he smiled inwardly as he watched the men lead the horses away. It was very doubtful whether food of any kind would be procurable at this time of night, and even if Hosein’s endeavours met with success it was not likely that Geradine would appreciate the rough fare of the necessitous little village. Nor, he was convinced, would the handful of crushed dates he carried in his waistcloth prove any more acceptable.
And when at length Hosein returned with a bowl of curdled camel’s milk he was not surprised that the Viscount, after one glance of mingled dismay and repugnance, rejected both it and the unsavoury looking little mass of sand covered fruit with a disgusted “Lord, what beastly muck!” and retired into his corner with his hunger unsatisfied to curse himself to sleep. He was still sleeping heavily when Carew woke with the dawn and went out to find Hosein and the horses and make arrangements for Geradine’s return to Biskra. It was not his intention that they should ride together. His sole desire was to get away as quickly as possible from the vicinity of the man he hated more vehemently than ever.
Last night he had controlled himself only by a super-human effort. This morning he felt he could no longer trust himself. To escape the leave taking that was otherwise unavoidable he did not go back to the hut when, an hour later, he was ready for the road and had concluded his interview with Malec and the headman of the village.
But as his foot was in the stirrup Geradine appeared, yawning sleepily, and swinging his arms to get the stiffness out of them. Having wakened for once without his customary morning headache he was in a better temper than usual. Apparently oblivious of his incivility of the previous evening he lounged forward with an air of condescending geniality, prepared evidently to make himself agreeable. His shouted greeting terminated in a loud laugh as he glanced at Carew, clean shaven and immaculate as Hosein always contrived he should be, and then at his own soiled clothing.
“You look smart enough, by Gad,” he said, fingering his rough chin tenderly, “where the devil do you find water and a razor in this filthy little hole? You’re off early—what’s your hurry? Oh, damn it, I forgot you can’t speak English. Well, never mind, you’re a sportsman whatever you are. I’d have been in the soup last night if you hadn’t come along. Many thanks—dash it, I mean très obligé, mille remerciments—and all the rest of it, don’t you know.” And with another laugh he thrust out his hand.
But incited by the gentle pressure of his rider’s heel Suliman plunged wildly and shot away leaving Geradine with his arm still outstretched, half annoyed and half amused at Carew’s abrupt departure.
Proud as Lucifer, like every other potty little chief he had ever met—but the beggar could ride, he reflected as he stood looking after the galloping horsemen, and the man he had with him was worth a dozen of the fool he was landed with. And yawning again he turned back to the hut and roared for the fool in question.
CHAPTER VIII
In her bedroom at the Villa des Ombres Marny Geradine was standing before the open window staring out into the darkness. She stood very still, her colourless face set like a mask of marble, her hands clasped tightly behind her. Only the tempestuous rise and fall of her delicately rounded bosom betrayed the inward tumult that was raging within her. Five minutes ago she had dismissed a white faced and pleading Ann and now, alone, she was facing a decision that took all her courage to sustain.