“And there,” he pointed inconsequently, “is the Automobile Club!”
“And beyond it ... The Convent of the Flaming-Hood....”
“And those blue revolving lights; can you see them, Rara?”
“Yes, dear ... what are they, Yousef?”
“Those,” he told her, contemplating her beautiful white face against the dusky bloom, “are the lights of the Café Cleopatra!”
“And what,” she questioned, as they sauntered on, pursued by all the sweet perfumes of the night, “are those berried-shrubs, that smell so passionately?”
“I don’t know,” he said: “Kiss me, Rara!”
“No, no.”
“Why not?”
“Not now!”