"I ask you again, do I resemble an ass that you should put such a burden of lies upon me? As if I did not know why young men risked their lives, in the dead of night, in other men's rooms! If I did not know what turns their brains to mush and their hearts to leading strings! And you—you—you little white rose of seclusion—!"
His venom leaped out at her in his voice. It was a terrible voice, the cold, grating menace of a madman.
"You, who had never seen this man but who fluttered to him like a white moth to a fire, you who cowered from your husband's hand but who turned to follow this strange dog into the streets—there will be care taken of you later. But now—you complained of fatigue. Surely this scene is overtaxing for your delicacy. If you will come to your rooms—"
She drew back from the hand he laid upon her. "Do not injure him! By Allah's truth! He is rash, mad, but a stranger. He did not know—"
"He needs enlightenment. He needs to learn that a nobleman's harem is not a café of dancing girls, where all may enter and stare and fondle. Bismallah—he shall learn!... And now come—"
"I shall not go," she said breathlessly.
"What—struggle? But your father has been strangely remiss with his discipline.... Permit me."
His hand tightened in a grasp of iron.
"My train is caught," she said in a tone of sudden pettishness; she stooped to lift it with her hand that was free.
"My train—!" he mimicked her in a quivering falsetto. "Have a care of my frock—do not crush my chiffons.... And these are the women for whom men break their heads and hearts!"