Inside, the room was very dim; the furniture bulked large in the shadows. Scent, dusk, luxury lapped round him like warm water. He had an impression of soft, scattered garments, deep mirrors, chosen books, and many little bottles. Suddenly he was appalled by the insolence of his own intrusion—an unbeliever bursting into a shrine. He stood silent by the door. He heard a drowsy voice singing in a murmur an absurd childish rhyme,—
'Il était noir comme un corbeau,
Ali, Ali, Ali, Alo,
Macachebono,
La Roustah, la Mougah, la Roustah, la Mougah,
Allah!
'Il était de bonne famille,
Sa mère élevait des chameaux,
Macachebono....'
He discerned the bed, the filmy veils of the muslin mosquito curtains, falling apart from a baldaquin. The lazy voice, after a moment of silence, queried,—
'Nana?'
It was with an effort that he brought himself to utter,—
'No; Julian.'
With an upheaval of sheets he heard her sit upright in bed, and her exclamation,—
'Who said you might come in here?'
At that he laughed, quite naturally.