Helen seized the opportunity and crossed quickly to where Zarah stood, marvelling at her beauty.
“Zarah,” she said sweetly, “when are you going to find the time to take me to Hutah. I do so want to get back. Do you know what I’ve been thinking?” Zarah shook her head as she looked at Helen, raging inwardly at the English girl’s beauty, especially the golden hair, which, for coolness sake, hung in two great plaits to her knees. “You come with me and stay with me on a return visit, and together we will try and find out what has become of Ralph Trenchard, because I am sure he is alive. I should know if he wasn’t, I am sure I should.”
Zarah turned abruptly away, swinging her cloak about her so that her mouth was hidden. She wanted to laugh, and she wanted to strike the English girl for the possessive way in which she always spoke of the sick man, whom she, Zarah, had nursed so assiduously for days and nights; also could she willingly have killed her on the spot for the almost irreparable mistake she had caused her to make by lying about her death.
Helen saw nothing of the girl’s fury; she had bent to pick up a box of chocolates, whilst the surly negress watched her through the doorway and inelegantly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Have a sweet, Zarah,” Helen said gently, offering the box, “and then be really nice and take me for a walk. I shall die if I don’t get a scramble amongst the rocks.”
“Wher-r-e do you want to go?” Zarah asked, as she zealously filled her mouth with the sweetmeats the surly negress coveted.
“I do so want to see the spear which was flung at your father, and then”—Helen laughed so that her request should not be taken too seriously—“then couldn’t we walk across the wonderful hidden path to the desert, then walk back? I’ll pin your train up if you’ve got a safety pin. You are beautiful, Zarah; I can’t think why you haven’t been married years ago.”
Zarah whirled round on her like a tiger-cat. In her violent jealousy she thought the other sneered at her; in her littleness of mind she failed to catch the ring of honest admiration in the girl’s voice.
“Mar-r-ried!” she shrilled. “I am going to be mar-r-ried soon, and you won’t be her-r-e to see the cer-r-emony. Oh, do go away!” She pushed Helen roughly on one side when she put out her hand in congratulation. “We Ar-r-rabians do not expand over-r ze idea of mar-r-riage as you English do.” She walked to the door as she added insolently, “We have no old maids, and I am younger zan you,” then clapped her hands and called the surly negress shrilly, angrily.
“Methinks a whip upon the soles would hasten thy feet,” she cried furiously, as the woman ran forward and flung herself face downwards. “Thou three-footed jackal, get up!” She struck the woman in the face when she opened her mouth, from which no coherent sound came, owing to her tongue having been split in her youth for misdemeanour, and struck again, until Helen caught her by the shoulder and flung her on one side, whereupon the negress fell on her knees, bowed her head to the ground and kissed the Arabian’s feet.