A spasm crossed the Levantine’s face. She put her handkerchief to it for a moment. “What is an Ouled?” she inquired, withdrawing it.
“I dare not tell you,” he replied solemnly.
“But indeed I wish to know, so that I may sympathise with monsieur.”
Mr. Greyne hesitated, but his heart was full; he felt the need of sympathy. He looked at Mademoiselle Verbena, and a great longing to unburden himself overcame him.
“An Ouled,” he replied, “is a dancing-girl from the desert of Sahara.”
“Mon Dieu! How does she dance? Is it a valse, a polka, a quadrille?” “No. Would that it were!” And Mr. Greyne, unable further to govern his desire for full expression, gave Mademoiselle Verbena a slightly Bowdlerised description of the dances of the desert. She heard him with amazement.
“How terrible!” she exclaimed when he had finished. “And does one pay much to see such steps of the Evil One?”
“I gave her twenty pounds. Abdallah Jack——”
“Abdallah Jack?”
“My guide informed me that was the price. He tells me it is against the law, and that each time an Ouled dances she risks being thrown into prison.”