Damaris adjusted the selva, the quaint silver kind of tube between the eyebrows which connects the yashmak and the tarhah or head-veil, took a final look in the mirror, and rose.
"I am an Egyptian woman of the humblest class."
She was all in black, as befits a member of that class. The simple bodice, cut in a yoke, of the black muslin dress fitted her like a glove; the skirt fell in wide folds from the waist and swung about her ankles encircled by big brass rings, which clashed as she moved. She wore the black yashmak and tarhah; upon her arms were many brass bracelets which tinkled; on one hand she wore a ring and there were flesh-coloured silken hose and sandals upon her feet. She had made a mistake and henna'd her finger-tips, which members of the humblest class have not time to do—besides, their patient hands matter so little—and her great eyes looked as black as the yashmak over which they shone.
Her beautiful face was hidden, yet was she infinitely alluring, tantilising, mysterious, under her veils.
Heavens! if only women knew how easy it is to enhance the looks by the simple method of touching up the eyes with kohl and covering the rest of the face!
"All of us in veils and masks will have to take them off at one."
"Yes, there'll be the rub," said Damaris, as she knelt down beside the perplexed, growling bulldog.
"Don't know Missie? Don't love her?"
"Woomph!" replied Wellington, hurling his great weight into her lap.
"How he loves you, Maris!"