Barbara fetched the wrapper and sat down beside the dancer. But Nur-el-Din did not move. She seemed to be thinking. Barbara saw the hunted look she had already observed in her that evening creeping over her face again.
“It is a hard life; this life of ours, a life of change, ma petite! A great artiste has no country, no home, no fireside! For the past five years I have been roaming about the world! Often I think I will settle down, but the life holds me!”
She took up from her dressing-table a little oblong plain silver box.
“I want to ask you a favor, ma petite Barbara!” she said. “This little box is a family possession of mine: I have had it for many years. The world is so disturbed to-day that life is not safe for anybody who travels as much as I do! You have a home, a safe home with your dear father! He was telling me about it! Will you take this little box and keep it safely for me until... until... the war is over... until I ask you for it?”
“Yes, of course,” said Barbara, “if you wish it, though, what with these air raids, I don’t know that London is particularly safe, either.”
“Ah! that is good of you,” cried Nur-el-Din, “anyhow, the little box is safer with you than with me. See, I will wrap it up and seal it, and then you will take it home with you, n’est-ce pas?”
She opened a drawer and swiftly hunting among its contents produced a sheet of white paper, and some sealing-wax. She wrapped the box in the paper and sealed it up, stamping the seals with a camel signet ring she drew off her finger. Then she handed the package to Barbara.
There was a knock at the door. The maid, noiselessly arranging Madame’s dresses in the corner opened it.
“You will take care of it well for me,” the dancer said to Barbara, and her voice vibrated with a surprising eagerness, “you will guard it preciously until I come for it...” She laughed and added carelessly: “Because it is a family treasure, a life mascotte of mine, hein?”
Then they heard Strangwise’s deep voice outside.