When the silhouette was done, he presented it with a low bow to Margaret.

’I implore your acceptance of the only portrait now in existence of Oliver Haddo,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she answered frigidly.

She was unwilling to take it, but had not the presence of mind to put him off by a jest, and would not be frankly rude.  As though certain she set much store on it, he placed it carefully in an envelope.  They walked on and suddenly came to a canvas booth on which was an Eastern name.  Roughly painted on sail-cloth was a picture of an Arab charming snakes, and above were certain words in Arabic.  At the entrance, a native sat cross-legged, listlessly beating a drum.  When he saw them stop, he addressed them in bad French.

‘Does not this remind you of the turbid Nile, Dr Porhoet?’ said Haddo.  ‘Let us go in and see what the fellow has to show.’

Dr Porhoet stepped forward and addressed the charmer, who brightened on hearing the language of his own country.

‘He is an Egyptian from Assiut,’ said the doctor.

‘I will buy tickets for you all,’ said Haddo.

He held up the flap that gave access to the booth, and Susie went in.  Margaret and Arthur Burdon, somewhat against their will, were obliged to follow.  The native closed the opening behind them.  They found themselves in a dirty little tent, ill-lit by two smoking lamps; a dozen stools were placed in a circle on the bare ground.  In one corner sat a fellah woman, motionless, in ample robes of dingy black.  Her face was hidden by a long veil, which was held in place by a queer ornament of brass in the middle of the forehead, between the eyes.  These alone were visible, large and sombre, and the lashes were darkened with kohl:  her fingers were brightly stained with henna.  She moved slightly as the visitors entered, and the man gave her his drum.  She began to rub it with her hands, curiously, and made a droning sound, which was odd and mysterious.  There was a peculiar odour in the place, so that Dr Porhoet was for a moment transported to the evil-smelling streets of Cairo.  It was an acrid mixture of incense, of attar of roses, with every imaginable putrescence.  It choked the two women, and Susie asked for a cigarette.  The native grinned when he heard the English tongue.  He showed a row of sparkling and beautiful teeth.

‘My name Mohammed,’ he said.  ’Me show serpents to Sirdar Lord Kitchener.  Wait and see.  Serpents very poisonous.’

He was dressed in a long blue gabardine, more suited to the sunny banks of the Nile than to a fair in Paris, and its colour could hardly be seen for dirt.  On his head was the national tarboosh.