The veil muffled that from him.  “But why—­why?” he repeated in an angrily puzzled way.

She made a little gesture of weary impotence.  Out of the dark draperies her hands were like white fluttering butterflies.

“What can I do?”

“I should think you could do the Old Harry of a lot.”

“Weep?” said the girl with a pale irony not lost upon him.

“Weep—­or row.  Or run,” he added, almost reluctantly.

She turned away her head.  “I know, I thought once that I could run.  For that I stole the key to this gate.  But where would I run, monsieur?  I have neither friends, nor—­nor the resources....  There have been girls—­two sisters—­who ran away last year—­but they were already married and they had cousins in France.  For me, my cousins do not exist.  I do not know my mother’s family.  They disowned her for her marriage, my father says.  And so—­but it is not possible to evade this....  It is not possible.  This marriage is required.”

“Required—­rot!  Can’t you—­don’t you—­” he paused, looking down upon her in tremendous and serious uncertainty.  The impulse was strong upon him to tell her that he would help her.  The accents of her voice had seemed to tear at his very heart.

It was utter madness.  Where, in the map of Africa, would he hide her?  And how would he take care of her?  What would he do to her?  Make love to her?  Marry her?  Take home a wife from an Egyptian harem—­a surprising acquisition with which to startle and enchant his decorous family in East Middleton!

And a pretty end to his work here, his reputation, his responsibilities—­

It was madness.  And the fact that the thought had presented itself, even for his flouting mockery, indicated that he was mad.  He told himself to be careful.  Better men than he had everlastingly done for themselves because upon a night of stars and moonshine some dark-eyed girl had played the very devil with their common sense.

He reminded himself that he had never set eyes on her until last night, that she might be the consummate perfection of a minx, that there might not be a word of truth in all of this.

This general, now!  Sudden.  Not a word about it last night.  And now—­

He had an inkling that even Mohammedan fathers do not rush matters at such a pace.

For all he knew the girl might be inventing this general—­for some artless reasons of her own.  For all he knew she might be married to him and desirous of escape.

But he didn’t believe it.  She was too young and shy and virginal.  The accents of her candor rebuked his skepticism.  He merely told himself these things because the last vestige of his expiring common sense was prompting him.

And after all these creditable and excellent exhortations, to the utter extinction of the last vestige of that common sense he heard himself saying abruptly, “But isn’t there anything in the world that I can do—?”