Aylmer joined the main stream of traffic which breasted up past the Mosque and the little Sôk towards the Gate of the Great Market, and so, past the hovels of the desert vagrants which cluster round the walls, to the Marshan and the European quarter outside the town.
A little apart from the cluster of Legations stood the Villa Eulalia, encircled with its tiny park. This, in its turn, was bounded by a high wall of plaster or dried mud. The entrance led under an archway by a porter's lodge.
A Moor in a spotless bournous appeared and made a grave gesture of obeisance as the visitor stood in the shadow of the porch.
Aylmer presented his card.
The man inspected it and pulled a cord. Some way off, inside the house, came the clang of a bell. Another man emerged, took the card which the porter handed him, and disappeared. All this time Aylmer still stood outside the gate.
Perhaps a certain irritation showed on his face, for the porter made a gesture of deprecation.
"If the Sidi would sit—?" He submitted courteously, indicating his own chair. "I do not know the Sidi," he added, with another tiny shrug, "or else—" His voice died away. He let it be inferred that circumstances, not his own desire, stood between the visitor and instant welcome.
Aylmer smiled.
"Strangers do not have the entrée?" he asked, as he seated himself.
The man bowed a grave affirmative.