Still leaning towards her he began to intone the stanzas in a very fair tenor voice, and if his movements were at all unsteady, his speech was most precise and accurate.

     “From her radiance the sun taketh increase when
      She unveileth and shameth the moonlight bright.”

He chuckled....  “Ah, I shall put the triple veil upon you, my little moon....  How Is this one?

     “’On Sun and Moon of Palace cast thy sight,
        Enjoy her flower-like face, her fragrant light,
      Thine eyes shall never see in hair so black
        Beauty encase a brow so purely white.’”

He got up and drew his chair closer to her.  “That is the song for you, little white rose of beauty.”

Back went her own chair, and she rose to her feet.

“I thank you for the compliment, monsieur.  But now have I your permission to retire?  For it has been a long day and I am indeed fatigued—­”

To her vexation her voice was trembling, but she steadied it proudly.

“I bid you good evening.”

“Nonsense, my little white rose.  This is not so fatiguing—­a few words more.  But you are like the flower that flies before the wind....  But your room, yes, to be sure.  Shall I show you the way?”

“I can discover it, monsieur.”

“Monsieur—­fie on you, my little dove....  Hamdi, I tell you, your lover Hamdi.”

He laughed unsteadily, and put a hand on her arm.  “You are running away, I know that.  And I have so much to tell you ...  Oh, it was tedious in that villa of your father’s!  ‘Yes,’ I thought to myself, ’that is a fine story, a funny story, but I have heard them all before.  And you are in no haste, you revelers—­you have no little bride waiting for you at home.’...  That one glance at you—­I tell you it was the glance of which the poet sings—­the glance that cost him a thousand sighs.  I was on fire with impatience....  For I am beauty’s slave, little dove....  You may have heard—­but no matter.  A wife must be a pearl unspotted....  I am not as the English who take their wives from the highways, where all men’s glances have rested upon them.  Have I not been at their balls?  Their women dance in other men’s arms.  They marry wives whose hands other men have pressed.  Sometimes—­who knows?—­their lips have been kissed....  And then a husband takes her....  Oh, many thanks!”

He laughed sardonically and waved his hands a little wildly.  “Oh, I know English—­all the Europeans.  I have seen their women.  I have seen them selling their wares—­stripping themselves half bare in the evenings, the shameless—­For me, never!  My wife is a hidden treasure.  You know what the poet says: 

     “‘An’ there be one who shares with me her love
        I’d strangle Love tho’ Life by Love were slain,
     Saying, O Soul, Death were the nobler choice,
        For ill is Love when shared twixt partners twain.’”