“You are very good, but I believe my place is here,” he said, with a swift, sardonic glance toward his herd of followers.  Lady Deppingham raised her delicate eyebrows and gave him the cool, intimate smile of comprehension.  He flushed.  “I am one of the lowly and the despised,” he explained humbly.

“The Princess is to be with me for a month.  We expect more sunshine than ever at the chateau,” ventured her ladyship.

“I sincerely hope you may be disappointed,” said he commiseratingly, fanning himself with his hat.  She laughed and understood, but Deppingham was half way out to the yacht before it became clear to him that the Enemy hoped literally, not figuratively.

The Enemy sauntered back toward the town, past and through the staring crowd of women.  Here and there in the curious throng the face of a Persian or an Egyptian stared at him from among the brown Arabians.  There was no sign of love in the glittering eyes of these trafficked women of Japat.  One by one they lifted their veils to their eyes and slowly faded into the side streets, each seeking the home she despised, each filled with a hatred for the man who would not feast upon her beauty.

The man, all unconscious of the new force that was to oppose him from that hour, saw the English people go aboard.  He waited until the owner’s launch was ready to return to the pier with its merry company, and then slowly wended his way to the “American bar,” lonelier than ever before in his life.  He now knew what it was that he had missed more than all else—­Woman!

Britt and Saunders were waiting for him under the awning outside.  They were never permitted to enter, except by the order or invitation of the Enemy.  Selim stood guard and Selim loved the tall American, who could be and was kind to him.

“Hello,” called Britt.  “We saw you down there, but couldn’t get near.  By ginger, old man, I had no idea your Persians were so beautiful.  They are Oriental gems of—­”

“My Persians?  What the devil do you mean, Britt?  Come in and sit down; I want to talk to you fellows.  See here, this talk about these women has got to be stopped.  It’s dangerous for you and it’s dangerous for me.  It is so full of peril that I don’t care to look at them, handsome as you say they are.  Do you know what I was thinking of as I came over here, after leaving one of the most charming of women?—­your Lady Deppingham.  I was thinking what a wretched famine there is in women.  I’m speaking of women like Lady Deppingham and Mrs. Browne—­neither of whom I know and yet I’ve known them all my life.  The kind of women we love—­not the kind we despise or pity.  Don’t you see?  I’m hungry for the very sight of a woman.”

“You see Miss Pelham often enough,” said Saunders surlily.  The Enemy was making a pitcher of lemonade.

“My dear Saunders, you are quite right.  I do see Miss Pelham often enough.  In my present frame of mind I’d fall desperately in love with her if I saw her oftener.”  Saunders blinked and glared at him through his pale eyes.