And as the merry little crowd ran laughing into the hotel, the duchess, with mind intent on a cigarette, slipped out of another door and hurried as fast as her outrageous heels would allow her to a seat under the date-palms.

She took a Three Castles from the jewelled Louis XV snuff-box, rasped a match on the sole of one little crimson shoe, lit her cigarette, and studied the slipper.

Then she turned her head and saw a man, an Arab, standing beside the seat.

There had been no sound; just out of the dark he had suddenly materialised in the startling, silent way of the East.

Well does it behove us to remember that we have claimed the privilege of giving lessons in morality, culture, good-breeding, manners, in fact, in one word, civilisation to the world at large.

In the glaring sun of an Eastern mid-day you can sit with your feet figuratively or literally on the table, if it pleases you; it will but be accounted as one more eccentricity unto you; but in the shadows, an’ you would retain the position of teacher to the world at large, keep the heels on the rail of your chair; for there are ears and eyes a-many in the shadows and behind the silken curtain.

But it took a good deal more than the sudden appearance of a native to make the old lady start.

She put out her cigarette with the toe of a red shoe, took another from the snuff-box, rasped a match—­not on the sole of her foot this time—­lit the fragrant weed and looked at the man, who salaamed.

“Yes?” she said courteously.

“I am the fortune-teller, great lady.  In the sand, by the stars, or the lines of your jewelled hand, if in your graciousness you will permit me, I will tell you your future.”

“My son, behold.  I am near the sunset, the moment approaches when my tired feet will advance still further upon the bridge which leadeth me to my God and your God.  What is past I know; what is, is; what is to be, is so near that, behold, sometimes in the stillness of the night I hear the angels whispering as they take counsel as to the moment when, one shall tap me upon the shoulder, saying, ‘Come!’”

He sank to the ground just at her feet and looked up in the splendid old face with an agony of hurt born of misunderstanding in his own, so that, suddenly realising that her refusal had been taken for antipathy, she stretched out her hand, which, having first pulled a corner of his white mantle between, he held upon the back of his own.

“Tell me, then, of those I love.”

The fortune-teller looked her straight in the face.

“Thy hands are full of love-flowers, white woman; thy head is crowned with them; thy feet pass upon them; thou art all love.  Yea! even though there are many upon the bridge who, having preceded thee, await thy coming, yet art thou surrounded with love.  And in the flowers in thy hands is there one which thou cherishest, and for which thou fearest.