Even before she was seated she clapped her hands to summon a waiter, and presently ordered a bottle of champagne.
“I always drink champagne with Englishmen,” she observed, “Beaume with the French, and with the Germans—beer!”
She looked at Twelves for his approval, and the smile he had ready for her was ample assurance that she had said a very witty thing.
“I come from Bucharest and my name is Zuleika,” she announced, inconsequently. Her self-satisfaction was that of a deliciously vain child. Then, with strange disconnectedness: “Would you like to see my coins?” she asked.
We expressed the greatest interest.
“From Cairo,” she said, as she patted her satchel of beads the colour of pigeons’ blood. She took therefrom a number of bright foreign coins and held them in the cup made by her hollowed hands.
But Twelves did not even glance at them.
His strong, lithe fingers were embedded in the white flesh of her arm, like manacles, and his eyes held hers.
“Well, well, well,” she laughed, “but you must be good and patient.”
She released her arm and touched him lightly on the cheek with the tips of her fingers, smiling at him all the time.