He looked across the divan at her, and the change that the last few
hours had made in her struck him painfully. The alert, vigorous
boyishness that had been so characteristic was gone. Her slim figure
drooping listlessly in the big chair, her white face with the new marks
of suffering on it, and her wide eyes burning with dumb misery, were
all purely womanly. And yet though he resented the change he wished it
could have gone further. The restraint she was putting on herself was
unnatural. She asked no questions and she shed no tears. He could have
borne them both easier than the silent anguish of her face. He feared
the results of the emotion she was repressing so rigidly.
There was a long silence.
Henri came in once and Diana roused herself to ask for Gaston, and then
relapsed into silent watchfulness again. She sighed once, a long
quivering sigh that nearly broke Saint Hubert's heart. He rose and bent
over the Sheik with his fingers on his wrist, and as he laid the
nerveless hand down again she leaned nearer and covered it with her
own.
"His hand is so big for an Arab's," she said softly, like a thought
spoken aloud unconsciously.
"He is not an Arab," replied Saint Hubert with sudden, impatient
vehemence. "He is English."
Diana looked up at him swiftly with utter bewilderment in her startled
eyes. "I don't understand," she faltered. "He hates the English."
"Quand-meme, he is the son of one of your English peers. His
mother was a Spanish lady; many of the old noble Spanish families have
Moorish blood in their veins, the characteristics crop up even after
centuries. It is so with Ahmed, and his life in the desert has
accentuated it. Has he never told you anything about himself?"
She shook her head. "Sometimes I have wondered----" she said
reflectively. "He seemed different from the others, and there has been
so much that I could never understand. But then again there were times
when he seemed pure Arab," she added in a lower voice and with an
involuntary shiver.
"You ought to know," said Saint Hubert. "Yes!" he went on firmly, as
she tried to interrupt him. "It is due to you. It will explain so many
things. I will take the responsibility. His father is the Earl of
Glencaryll."
"But I know him," said Diana wonderingly. "He was a friend of my
father. I saw him only a few months ago when Aubrey and I passed
through Paris. He is such a magnificent-looking old man, so fierce and
sad. Oh, now I know why that awful frown of Ahmed's has always seemed
so familiar. Lord Glencaryll frowns like that. It is the famous Caryll
scowl. But I still don't understand." She looked from Saint Hubert to
the unconscious man on the divan and back to Saint Hubert with a new
trouble growing in her eyes.