“I don’t believe she’s Indian,” he rambled on; “I never saw a type quite like it. The face is too delicate for a Creole; I wonder if she’s an Arabian. She looks like a princess out of the Arabian Nights, now doesn’t she?”
“Yes, perhaps she does. And you had better remember all that means before you set about stealing a march on the genie. Little cunning, sensual creatures with the mind and manners of cats—”
“I tell you who she is like,” pursued Massey, ignoring interruptions, “she is Scheherazade. You remember, the sultan’s wife who tells the stories, and fascinates him into sparing her life, after he’d sworn to kill all his wives on discovering what a faithless lot they were.”
“And then the story breaks off without letting one know whether she turned out any better than the rest. Wise chronicler, he knew where to stop! And if you’re wise, you’ll follow his example, and leave the tale where it is at present.”
But that was asking too much. The very next day, Massey rang boldly at the bell of Rahas and Fanah, Oriental merchants, and spent two or three pounds on trumpery brass pots and pans and on ill-made plaster animals, purposely choosing small articles that he might fritter away his time the more slowly, and in fact hang about on the chance of another sight of the Eastern beauty. He was served by the man he had seen the evening before, a genuine Oriental with grave, composed, leisurely manners. Massey longed to put some question to him which should lead to the discovery whether he was married, but this was not easy, as the Oriental merchant’s black eyes had an expression which suggested that he was not to be trifled with; “a sort of creepy, crafty, stick-you-through-with-a-chopstick-and-serve-you-up-with-chilis look,” as he afterwards described it to Dicky. However, he elicited the information that the dark-visaged one came from Smyrna, which did not help him much, as the only thing he recollected to have heard about that place was that:
“There was a young person of Smyrna, whose grandmother threatened to burn her.”
He came out crestfallen after a stay of an hour and a quarter, but had his drooping spirits raised by running against Dicky Wood as he turned into Portland Place.
“Hallo, where are you going to?” “Hallo, where are you coming from?” said they at the same moment.
They both had grown red, and presently began to laugh as the truth came out. Scheherazade, whatever names you might call her, had a captivating presence which absolutely demanded to be seen again.
The ardour of those two young men for Indian art-products grew hotter and hotter as the week wore on, and their alternate pilgrimages to Mary Street resulted in nothing but the accumulation of a vast hoard of lacquered and engraved articles which not even the most indiscriminate present-giving could keep within due bounds. The senior partner in the firm, a small gentleman, leather-coloured and lean, with a grey beard and a white turban, had indeed turned up and induced suggestions that the mysterious lady might be his daughter, and glimpses had been caught of a lean, withered, white-robed ayah, who could by no means be mistaken for the interesting fair one; but it was not until the ninth day after their first visit that Massey was able, with great excitement, to announce that, on paying a late evening visit to Mary Street, he had seen the mysterious fair one disappearing helter-skelter up the staircase, and heard her close sharply, not to say bang, a door on the first floor.