Dismounting and throwing my reins to the native I strode off in the direction indicated. As I drew near the tent I paused.
Voices were raised in altercation. Far be it from me to be eaves-dropper to a private family-quarrel, which, alas, I feared was an all too frequent occurrence in the lives of this mismated pair. Ready to withdraw I hesitated when a particularly sharp interchange forced a decision. A burst of laughter was followed by a man’s voice crying hoarsely—“By God, I’ll cut your throat!” Then a shriek rang out. It was high time to interfere. A fight may be private but a murder is not. Drawing aside the curtain I leapt into the tent.
“Hold!” I cried. “Stay thy hand: infidel son of a swineherd’s sister; or by the beard of the Prophet thou perish’st.”
The speech was entirely impromptu and I thought it sounded well, but somehow it fell flat.
Lord Wimpole was alone. He was shaving.
“I was speakin’ to that dam’ parrot,” he said brandishing his razor toward Selim who was twisting about and making a noise like sick automobile-gears. “Who are you, may I ask?”
How low the fellow was! ... and how contemptible he looked, his face half shaved, half lumpy with lather. One of life’s bitter jokes is that practically every man must shave. As I thus philosophized the curtains of an adjoining apartment opened and She appeared.
Heavens! how beautiful she looked. She en dishabille, clutching about her golden body the folds of a dazzling silk kimono, purple shot with green. Her hair was down: being bobbed it was, of course, always down, and her blue eyes were filmy with sleep.
“Doctor....” she began.
I checked her with an imperious gesture in which was expressed the boundless freedom of the fiery Arab race.