"What do you mean, Rayma?" he asked, as Pansy refused to answer.
The Arab girl sidled up to Pansy, malice and triumph in her eyes.
"Do you really want to know, my Lord?" she asked, smiling at him softly.
He nodded.
Before Pansy realised what was happening, there was a feeling of cold steel at her breast. Totally unprepared, it seemed that Rayma was going to stab her. She moved back quickly. As she moved there was the sharp snip of scissors, a rending sound, a quick jerk, and her one garment was dragged from her. The Arab girl retreated quickly, holding the silk slip behind her, leaving Pansy nothing but her curls to cover her; a covering that reached no further than the nape of her neck.
With a heart-broken cry she sank on the floor, and crouched there, her face hidden in her hands, flushed with shame from head to foot.
Laughing triumphantly Rayma pointed a scornful finger at her rival.
"Look, Casim, look, beloved," she cried, "that is the secret she would hide from you. Those ugly scars. And she bathes early in the morning when none of us are there, so that we shall not see them and tell you. For she knows that you would not love a woman so flawed."
The other women looked at Pansy in an unconcerned manner. Clothing was of no great consequence to them. Moreover, it was just as well not to interfere when Rayma chose to play her tricks and amuse their master.
But he did not look at all amused. What was more, his gaze did not go to the slim bare girl crouched on the floor. He looked instead at Rayma.