Jill had risen once to her feet, in a moment of anger, and had gone out onto the balcony and stood looking down, smiling upon the crowd, composed chiefly of women, who had raised their hands and called down the blessings of Allah upon her.

The steps were strewn with gifts, ranging from live goats to masses of sticky sweetmeats and glass beads.  Mothers had brought their sickly babies and laid them down amongst the goats and beads, hoping that if even the shadow of the blessed woman were to fall upon them they might be healed.

Mustapha kept guard, hurling abuse at those who tarried, helping their departure by the aid of his foot.  Hobson stood like a grim sentinel outside the sitting-room door.  She had made tea under the greatest difficulty—­the kettle of tepid water had been flung at the salaaming offender who had brought it—­and had taken it in blushing brick-red when Jill had risen and kissed her on both cheeks.  Dinner had been served, hardly tasted, and been sent away, and a whole tray of cups full of burnt milk showed the perturbation of the maid’s mind as she waited, and waited for the sound of the little bell which summoned her to her grace’s presence.

“You are a noble-looking woman, my child,” said the duchess, as she keenly scrutinised the fair face with great blue eyes and broad humourous mouth, which, but for an added serenity and dignity, was so very like the face of the girl who had been left behind at Ismailiah over twenty years ago, and who had journeyed into the desert with the Arabian Sheikh and had married him.  “I’m not surprised your husband adores you.  Could he not have come with you?  I have always longed to see him.”

It seemed that the Sheikh Hahmed had been invited to Bagdad, to some conference concerning the big Arabian question, but hoped to be able to greet her grace before her departure.  In the meanwhile his dwellings, his servants, his horses and everything he was possessed of were hers.

“And he means it, Petite Maman; he loves making people happy.  I—­I love him.”  She paused for a moment; then looked straight into the stern old eyes.  “My love for my son is as great as my love for his father, and I would lay down my life for their happiness.”

There was no tenderness in the sad old eyes and no lines of yielding in the stern old mouth; for although her heart was aching to say yes to the mother’s insistent demands for her son’s happiness, her common sense had turned her into a very rock of resistance.

“I am happy, radiantly happy.”  Jill, who was sitting on a stool at the old woman’s feet, slipped to her knees and caught the wrinkled old hands in her own.  “So why should the little girl not be happy with my son, who is the finest man and dearest son ever born to woman?  Tell me what difference is there?  Why should my son be made unhappy?  Tell me!”

She knew perfectly well.  Her son’s words on the roof of his dwelling under the stars were ringing in her ears; but she was hanging on to a very forlorn hope with both hands, tricking herself with the thought that, out of her love for her, the wise old woman might see things in a different light and give her consent to the marriage just because the man was her son.