“I consider you peculiarly conceited,” said Cecil, “and I am afraid a great deal of mental discipline will be needed in your case, Bey. But we are wasting time in this discussion. Let us begin.”
Azim Bey took the book and settled down to a quarter of an hour’s steady reading, then looked up, yawned, and showed a disposition to enter on an argument with regard to a point which he and Cecil had often discussed before. Cecil declined rather sharply to begin a fresh controversy, and her pupil returned to his book, only to leave it again in a minute or two. Thus things went on all the morning, affording practical proof that yesterday’s dissipation had not agreed with Azim Bey; and it was the same in the afternoon, when it was time to go to the Howard Whites’. The house they had occupied was already beginning to look dismantled, but the little drawing-room in which the hostess received her guests was still gay with native embroideries and decorated with quaint pieces of pottery and odds and ends of Assyrian sculpture. The usual sitting-room, however, was the vine-shaded terrace, and here Mrs Howard White retired with Cecil, despatching Azim Bey to the study to enjoy himself.
But, unfortunately, Professor Howard White had been obliged to ride out to the mounds with Said Bey, on account of an accusation which had been brought against him of desecrating a native cemetery in their vicinity in the course of his observations, and Azim Bey, disdaining the services of the meek Syrian assistant who offered to show him the instruments, came and sat down on the terrace with Cecil and her hostess and interrupted their talk. It was impossible to speak of Charlie and of Whitcliffe in his presence, and an awkward silence, broken by spasmodic attempts at conversation, fell on the three. It was a relief when one of the servants appeared and told Mrs Howard White that there was a man selling European cutlery and needles in the courtyard, asking whether she would like to have him brought in.
“Oh, if you please, madame, let him come in,” entreated Azim Bey, his usual vivacity returning. “Mademoiselle lost her scissors yesterday, and I have broken my knife, and I want a new one. May the pedlar come in?”
“Oh, certainly. Bring the man in, Habib,” said Mrs Howard White to the servant, and she moved towards the verandah, where there was a table. Presently the pedlar entered, escorted in by two or three of the servants, and by an assistant of his own, who helped to carry his boxes. The two men were in Armenian costume, with high black caps, which marked them as coming from Persia, and they spoke Arabic with the peculiar Persian intonation. When their boxes were opened, the stock-in-trade displayed was so extensive that Azim Bey went into raptures, and his delight even blinded him to the combination of the two obnoxious nationalities, the hated Persian and the despised Armenian, in the persons of the traders. Not less attracted were Um Yusuf and the rest of the women, and while Azim Bey chatted eagerly to the pedlar’s servant over the array of pocket-knives, they gathered round the other box and coveted endless pairs of scissors.
“See, mademoiselle,” said Um Yusuf, taking up a fanciful little needlecase in the shape of a butterfly, “this is a pretty thing. Why not Azim Bey buy it for Basmeh Kalfa? Look, it open, like this.”
“Stay, O my mistress,” interrupted the pedlar; “why shouldest thou spoil my wares? Let thy lady hold it, and I will show her how to open it.”
Um Yusuf put the case into Cecil’s hands, and the vendor raised the flap to show the needles inside. As he did so, his hands met Cecil’s with a peculiar pressure. Startled, she looked into his eyes, and in spite of dyed skin, shaven hair and moustache, recognised Charlie in the Armenian pedlar. The shock was overpowering, and she dropped helplessly on the divan, too much astonished even to cry out. A deadly faintness was stealing over her, the figures around seemed to be whirling in a rainbow-coloured mist, but two words from Charlie brought her back to her senses.
“Don’t faint,” he said, sternly, yet in such a low voice that she alone heard it, and she recalled her wandering wits and rose slowly from the seat where she had sunk down. With trembling hands she turned over the pedlar’s stock, and commented on it with lips quivering with agitation. It was a tremendous effort, but she was nerved to it by the sound of Azim Bey’s voice at the other end of the verandah.
“You see I remembered what you said, and came as a Christian this time,” said Charlie, in a hurried whisper, while he held up a pair of scissors for her inspection. Cecil gave him a look of agony. She dared not speak to him, dared not even let him touch her hand again, and it was misery that they should be so close and yet so widely separated. It was almost a relief when Azim Bey came to complete his purchases by buying a pair of scissors for old Ayesha, for even Charlie would not venture to address her when her pupil was so near. Again the thought of his danger made her turn sick and faint, and she sat down on the divan and listened to the details of the bargaining as though in a dream. At last Azim Bey had chosen all he wanted, the money was paid down, and Mrs Howard White told the servant to show the pedlar out. Cecil breathed freely once more. She had not heard the words which Azim Bey whispered to the negro lad who was officially known as his slipper-bearer.