“Why did not my lord come into the garden, to the roses and doves and—­me?” she asked falteringly, her gaze held now irresistibly by the dark orbs above her.  Then, afraid of her own temerity, she became white as death under his gaze.

But Ahmed was rather pleased by this first connected speech she had made in the interview.  It sounded to him like the tender reproach of an amorous, expectant maiden, waiting eagerly for her love, too long delayed.  The under-meaning, the terrible regret for irrevocable ill, naturally escaped him.  He smiled, and put his arm round her shoulders.  “Well, it is not too late,” he said, bending over her.  But the girl shrank from his arm, and he realised it instantly.  He was aware directly that there was some feeling in her not quite fathomed nor understood.  It puzzled him.  He was far too deep a thinker, far too refined a nature to treat his women as inanimate toys to be used for his amusement, either with or without their consent, as the chance might be.  He knew them to be, and treated them as, individual souls, with right of will and desire equal to his own, and was too proud to accept the gift of the body unless he had first conquered the will.  But usually there was no difficulty.  Nature had gifted Ahmed with all the best treasures in her jewel-box; beauty of face and form, strength and grace, charm of voice and presence—­everything needed to ensnare and delight the senses, and he was accustomed to be loved, passionately adored, and worshipped.  He was naturally a connoisseur in such matters, and knew well and easily the truth or dissembling in them.  But here there was neither:  the girl shrank from him instinctively, and seemed possessed by nothing but dumb, helpless fear that was distressing to him.  Yet not all distressing, for even in the best of male natures there always remains some of the instinctive desire of conquest, the delight in opposition, if not too prolonged, the love of battle, the hope of victory; and to Ahmed, the invariably successful lover, the resistance of this slight, rose-leaf creature he could crush with one blow of his hand roused suddenly all the primitive joy of the chase, the excitement of pursuit.  Only, where with some natures it would have been brutal and rapid, the end and triumph assured, the prize the body; here it would be gentle and dexterous, the end dependent on another, the prize the soul—­the soul, the will, the most difficult quarry to capture, as Ahmed knew.

He let his arm slip from her shoulders, and rose and walked over to the window, looking out for a moment into the delicious green beyond.  Dilama half-sat, half-crouched upon the divan, not daring to stir, and watched him furtively.

Ahmed stood for a moment, and there was dead silence in the room.  Then he returned and came towards the couch, standing opposite it, and looking down at her.

“Dilama, you seem very much afraid of me, and why is it?  Look up and speak to me.  There is no need for fear.  Do you think I have called you here to force you to love me?  There is no way of forcing love.  You are free to come and go to and from this room as you will, but I am lonely and grieved, now Buldoula has been taken away from me.  I would like you to come here and play and sing to me, and console me; will you?”