There was not much of that even when the women had done with her. They put her into a white silk slip that reached only to her knees, and with nothing more than a strap of pearls on either shoulder. They would have heaped more pearls upon her, string upon string about her neck. But she would not have that. She tore them off, so angrily that the slender threads snapped and they fell like frozen tears upon the marble floor, as her amber beads had fallen that night in his villa!
What a minor thing Lucille Lemesurier was now! Forgivable when she had learnt his race and religion. Not like this gigantic deception. A deception that had forced her into saying she loved the Sultan Casim Ammeh—the man who had tortured her father.
Leaving the women grovelling after the scattered pearls Pansy had rushed from the room, her only desire to seek some way of escape.
She had gone in her short slip and short curls, looking like some lovely, rebellious child.
Her steps had taken her into a big room like a hall, where a crowd of women were gathered; half a dozen of them, girls dressed in a similar style to herself.
Then Pansy's strength went from her suddenly.
She realized where she was. In the Sultan's harem! And she knew there would be no escape.
Sara had come to her, and had led her towards a pile of cushions set by a fountain where the other girls were. And the woman had said sharp words to the assembly, who had risen as if to crowd around her—words that had kept them at bay.
When she was seated they had stayed looking at her, most of them with curiosity and friendliness. But there was one face that Pansy, for all her numbness, saw was hostile; the face of a beautiful, golden-skinned girl.
There was one girl, too, who was more than specially friendly, who said to her in a soft, cooing voice: