"Well—hens! Supposing you had a breed of hens that were all—all—oh! any colour———"
"White Leghorns," said Jane Coop, who was beginning to get interested in this subject so near her heart.
"Yes. Well, supposing you found that one, when it had all its feathers, had some speckled ones under its wings——"
"But it couldn't, dearie, if it was pure-bred!"
"Yes, but just supposing it had, what would be the meaning of it?"
Jane Coop hesitated, and re-tied her apron-strings. Descriptive analysis was not her strong forte.
"Well, dearie, I should say that the male bird was a—a—oh! a Plymouth Rock, or something like that. The speckled bird would be a good one, but if it was mixed it would have to be turned out of the run if you had a fancy for showing and prizes. I remember a black—— But there now! what made you start your old Nannie talking about hens? Just you turn over and go to sleep, dearie. You have to be up and away early to-morrow, you know!"
She closed the door gently and left the girl alone.
"I don't understand," she said softly, and slipped out of bed to stand at the open window, with all the glory of an Egyptian night before her.
"I don't understand the meaning of the story," she repeated, as she watched the figure of a fellah wrapped in a big cloak which shone snow-white under the moon, trudging patiently across the grounds to the servants' quarters. Then, as the huge dog flung himself against her, she struck her hands together. The sudden impact sent her mind flying back to the first time she had seen Hugh Carden Ali, in English riding-kit and Mohammedan tarbusch in the bazaar; then in her memory she saw him dining as an Englishman; saw him riding with falcon upon fist—a very Eastern, saw him as an Arab of Arabia in the desert; again as an Englishman, save for the Mohammedan tarbusch, holding in the bay mare as she thundered past him on the stallion Sooltan.