He was very human, and there must have been moments when he wanted a
willing mate rather than a rebellious prisoner. She gave a quick sigh
as she looked at him. He was so strong, so vigorous, so intensely
alive. It was going to be very difficult to anticipate his moods and be
subservient to his temper. She sighed again wearily. If she could but
make him and keep him happy. She ruffled her loose curls, tugging them
with a puzzled frown, a trick that was a survival of her nursery days,
when she clutched frantically at her red-gold mop to help her settle
any childish difficulty.
She knelt up suddenly on the cushions of the divan. "Why do you hate
the English so bitterly, Monseigneur?" She had dropped almost
unconsciously into Gaston's mode of address for some time; it was often
awkward to give him no name, and she shrank from using his own; and the
title fitted him.
He looked up from his work, and, gathering the materials together,
brought them over to the divan. "Light me a cigarette, cherie,
my hands are busy," he replied irrelevantly.
She complied with a little laugh. "You haven't answered my question."
He polished the gleaming little weapon in his hand for some time
without speaking. "Ma petite Diane, your lips are of an adorable
redness and your voice is music in my ears, but--I detest questions.
They bore me to a point of exasperation," he said at last lightly, and
started humming the Kashmiri song again.
She knew him well enough to know that all questions did not bore him,
but that she must have touched some point connected with the past of
which she was ignorant that affected him, and to prove her knowledge
she asked another question. "Why do you sing? You have never sung
before."
He looked at her with a smile of amusement at her pertinacity.
"Inquisitive one! I sing because I am glad. Because my friend is
coming."
"Your friend?"
"Yes, by Allah! The best friend a man ever had. Raoul de Saint Hubert."
She flashed a look at the bookcase with a jerk of her head, and he
nodded. "Coming here?" she queried, and the dismay she felt sounded in
her voice.
He frowned in quick annoyance at her tone. "Why not?" he said
haughtily.
"No reason," she murmured, sinking down among the cushions again and
picking up the magazine from the floor. The advent of a stranger--a
European--was a shock, but she felt that the Sheik's eyes were on her
and she determined to show no feeling in his presence. "What time will
you be ready to ride?" she asked indifferently, with a simulated yawn,
flirting over the pages.