"But I do not find this so—so much of the old school. Here one does not eat rice with the fingers!"
"And I?" said the bey, leaning suddenly towards her on his outspread arm. "Do you find me too much of the old school? Eh? eh?"
"But you, monsieur," she stammered, still looking down, "you—I do not know you—not yet."
"Not—yet. Excellent! There will be time."
"I confess that now I am weary—"
"Ah,—and that diadem is heavy. Your head must ache with it," he said solicitously.
Perhaps it was the diadem that gave her that leaden, constricted sense of a band tightening about her forehead. She put up her hands to it.
"Permit me," he said quickly, springing to his feet. "Permit me to aid you."
He stepped behind her and bent over her. She held her head very still, stiff with distaste, and felt the weight lifted. He surveyed the circlet a moment then placed it upon the marriage throne behind her. She had an ironic memory of the false omen of her crowning, of soft, satisfied little Ghul-al-Din's bestowal of her own happiness.... Happiness, indeed....
"And that veil—surely that is incommoding?" suggested the suave voice, and she felt the touch of his hands on her hair where the misty veil was secured.