She raised her laughing eyes to his, and shrugged her shoulders.
“Don’t you find the place gloomy?” he asked.
“My friends generally go in for old oak furniture, or imitation Chippendale. I hate both.”
“So do I,” she assured him. “When we are married, Nino, I should like to have a room just like this for myself—only I’d want a piano,” she added, with a smile.
“A piano in a Moorish room!” he exclaimed. “Wouldn’t that be somewhat out of place? Long pipes and a darbouka or two, like these, would be more in keeping with Moorish ideas;” and he indicated a couple of drums of earthenware covered with skin, to the monotonous music of which the Arab and Moorish women are in the habit of dancing.
“But you have an English table here,” she exclaimed, crossing to it, “and there are photographs on it. Arab never tolerate portraits. It’s entirely against their creed.”
“Yes,” he admitted; “that’s true. I’ve never thought of it before.”
At that instant she bent quickly over one of the half-dozen photographs in fancy frames.
Then, taking it in her hand, she advanced swiftly to the window, and examined it more closely in the light. “Who is this?” she demanded in a fierce, harsh voice.
“A friend of mine,” he replied, stepping up to her and glancing over her shoulder at the portrait. “He’s an army officer—Major Gordon Maitland.”