“I am an English lady. My name is Mary Smith. I did a very wicked thing. I turned Mahometan, and married a Turkish gentleman, a Pasha, here in Cairo. I want to leave him and return to Christianity. I am an English lady, by name Mary Smith; not what they call me. I am prepared to take my oath that this is true, and Mrs. Cameron can tell you—I must get away!”
“What is all this, and who is Mrs. Cameron? In what way does your private history concern me? I beg you to pass on to the important statement which you have to make.”
“I ask your help to get away from the harîm.”
At that the Englishman resumed his eyeglass and surveyed her with a slight gape of amazement.
The scene of conversation was a large room, sparsely furnished with a desk, a table and a few plain chairs. The light from the high window shone on Barakah who, to prove that she was really English, had removed her face-veil. The critic’s wondering stare first made her conscious of the discrepancy with her request of highly raddled cheeks and lips, and kohled eyes—the touches Umm ed-Dahak had declared so beautiful. She was not a European any longer. Her very words resounded with a foreign accent. From the moment of her entering the presence of this hateful man, she had been persuaded of the folly of her errand, out of heart with it. Her speech, when uttered, carried no conviction.
“Indeed, indeed, I am an Englishwoman,” she persisted, with a kind of whimper. “I want to get away from here and lead a Christian life.”
But while she spoke the words her hands were busy readjusting the white muslin mouth-veil as a step towards going.
The great official shrugged his shoulders “Is that all you have to say?”
“Perhaps—I mean, I know that I did wrong to come here.” She was quivering from head to foot with shame. The act of sitting on a chair embarrassed her. She was completely out of touch with English ways.