that happening!—­he had joyously mentioned that he was trying to buy out another man’s berth upon that boat.  It wasn’t so much his wanting to come that was droll—­teasing sprites of girls with peach-blossom prettiness are not unwonted to the thunder of pursuing feet—­but the frank and cheery way he had of announcing it.  Not many men had the courage of their desires.  Not any men that little Miss Arlee had yet met had the frankness of such courage.  And because all women love the adventurous spirit and are woefully disappointed in its masculine manifestations, she felt a gay little eagerness which she would have refused to own.  It would be rather fun to see more of him—­on the Nile—­while Robert Falconer was sulking away in Cairo.  And then when she returned she would surprise and confound that misguided young Englishman with her unexpected—­to him—­presence at the Khedive’s ball.  And after that—­but her thoughts were lost in haziness then.  Only the ball stood out distinct and glittering and fairylike.

Thinking all these brightly revengeful thoughts she had been oblivious to the many turnings of the motor, though it had occurred to her that they were taking more time than the car had needed to appear, and now she looked out the window and saw that they were in a narrow street lined with narrow houses, whose upper stories, slightly projecting in little bays, all presented the elaborately grilled facades of mashrubiyeh work which announced the barred quarters of the women, the haremlik.

Arlee loved to conjure up a romantic thrill for the mysterious East by reflecting that behind these obscuring screens were women of all ages and conditions, neglected wives and youthful favorites, eager girls and revolting brides, whose myriad eyes, bright or dull or gay or bitter, were peering into the tiny, cleverly arranged mirrors which gave them a tilted view of the streets.  It was the sense of these watching eyes, these hidden women, which made those screened windows so stirring to her young imagination.

The motor whirled out of the narrow street and into one that was much wider and lined by houses that were detached and separated, apparently, by gardens, for there was a frequent waving of palms over the high walls which lined the road.  The street was empty of all except an old orange vender, shuffling slowly along, with a cartwheel of a tray on her head, piled with yellow fruit shining vividly in the hot sun.  The quiet and the solitude gave a sense of distance from the teeming bazaars and tourist-ridden haunts, which breathed of seclusion and aloofness.

The car stopped and Arlee stepped out before a great house of ancient stone which rose sharply from the street.  A high, pointed doorway, elaborately carved, was before her, arching over a dark wooden door heavily studded with nails.  Overhead jutted the little balconies of mashrubiyeh.  She had no more than a swift impression of the old facade, for immediately a doorkeeper, very vivid in his Oriental blue robes and his English yellow leather Oxfords, flung open the heavy door.