The Nubian, under orders, sat down upon the steps to await developments.
He was well content to wait.
He had gauged the white man’s strength of resistance and had no fear that he would become entangled in the beautiful Arabian’s wiles. He smiled as he crept, as noiselessly as a great cat, to the platform before the door and stretched himself flat upon it, the blackest spot in the black shadows, to listen to the woman he loved pleading for the love of one who loved another.
Lost to all sense of shame as are those women who have not learned the meaning of self-control and self-sacrifice, Zarah pleaded with Ralph Trenchard for his continued presence by her side. Pleaded for his company and his comradeship so that she might enjoy the shadow of his great good looks and actual presence whilst keeping the substance of his love from her rival.
She had made the greatest mistake in her toilette.
None too over-dressed at the best of times, she had a startlingly undressed appearance as she stood like a beautiful exotic flower beside the Englishman.
She had not—how could she in the name of decency?—discarded a single garment, but had donned the most transparent outfit in her wardrobe.
Her feet were bare and jewelled, as were her arms, her hands, her waist. The trousers, worn by most Arabian women, were voluminous in their transparent folds, her body shone through a jewelled vest which fitted her like her skin.
Trenchard looked at her from head to foot, and with the perverseness of the human mind immediately thought of the picture Helen had made as she stood beside her grandfather in the desperate battle; and he backed a pace before the Arabian’s semi-nudity, whilst the Nubian buried his face in his arm to stifle his cry of longing.