Perhaps some one had begun to notice him....  She wondered if he had been careful about his shoes, his hands....  How had he managed about the dress anyway?

And then she remembered that girl, that pretty American with the ruddy hair to whom she had seen him talking, and she conjectured that there was feminine aid and confidence....

A wave of bitterness swept over her.  He had told that girl about her—­he knew that girl well enough to tell her!  And perhaps he was only sorry for the poor little French girl in the Turkish harem, perhaps they were both sorry....

Had he told that girl, she thought with bitter mutiny, that he had kissed her?

That girl must have been very sure of him not to be jealous of his interest in herself!

And now they could be somewhere together, perhaps talking her over, while she was here ... here forever....

She was so white now, so silent, so distrait, that all the chatter of the younger girls who were lingering around her could not dispel the feeling of depression.  They cast covert glances of discomfort at each other, begged for more music from the orchestra, tallied with an effort of the size and spaciousness of the palace and the magnificence of the feast.

She had told herself that she had ceased to hope.  She did not know how false it was until the eunuch brought his message.  Then hope really died.

The general was below and begged to be announced to madame.

“We fly!” whispered a lingerer with nervous laughter, and hastily the young people hurried into their tcharchafs and veils, murmuring among themselves, with sidelong glances at that white figure whose cold hand and cheek they had just touched, hastily they sped, like light-footed nymphs in some witches’ robes, down the long room, while Madame de Coulevain drew back a strand of the girl’s dark hair and murmured, “But smile, my dear,” to the still figure and escaped with the guests.

And then Aimee was alone in the great room, deserted of its throngs, a darkening room, full of burned-down candles and fallen flower petals, with here and there the traces of the revelers, a scented handkerchief ... a fan ... a buckle from some French slipper ... or a feather from some ancient turban clasp....

Like the ghost of some deserted queen, with her regal satins and glittering circlet, she waited.  There was a moment of grace in which she tried, to turn a gallant face toward the next moment.

Then he came, advancing....  It may have been her distorted fancy, but down the long perspective, that figure looked more mincing, more waspish, more unreal than ever.  And she was conscious of that swift rising of dislike, of antagonism touched with reasonless fear.

CHAPTER XIII

THE BEY RETURNS

He kissed her hands.  She caught the murmur of compliments and the mingled scent of musk and wine.  He had been dining at his reception for the men, but he called now for a table and more refreshment.