Mechanically she followed Ibrahim away from the fire, across a strip of sand to a large tent that stood apart.  As she drew near to it her heart began to beat violently and irregularly, and she felt almost like a girl.  For years she had not felt so young as she felt to-night.  In this dark desert, among these men of Africa, all her worldly knowledge, all her experience of men in civilized countries seemed of no use to her.  It was as if she shed it, cast it as a snake casts its skin, and stood there in a new ignorance that was akin to the wondering ignorance of youth.  The canvas flap that was the door of the tent was fastened down.  Ibrahim went up to it and called out something.  For a moment there was no answer.  During that moment Mrs. Armine had time to notice a second smaller tent standing, with Baroudi’s, apart from all the others.  And she fancied, but was not certain, that as for an instant the breeze died down, she heard within it a thin sound like the plucked strings of some instrument of music.  Then the canvas of the big tent was lifted, light shone out from within, and she saw the strong outline of a man.  He looked into the night, drew back, and she entered quickly and stood before Baroudi.  Then the canvas fell down behind her, shutting out the night and the desert.

Baroudi was dressed in Arab costume.  His head was covered with a white turban spangled with gold, his face was framed in snowy white, and his great neck was hidden by drapery.  He wore a kuftan of striped and flowered silk with long sleeves, fastened round his waist with lengths of muslin.  Over this was a robe of scarlet cloth.  His legs were bare of socks, and on his feet were native slippers of scarlet morocco leather.  In his left hand he held an immensely long pipe with an ivory mouthpiece.

Mrs. Armine looked from him to his tent, to the thick, bright-coloured silks which entirely concealed the canvas walls, to the magnificent carpets which blotted out the desert sands, to the great hanging lamp of silver, which was fastened by a silver chain to the peaked roof, to the masses of silk cushions of various hues that were strewn about the floor.  Once again her nostrils drew in the faint but heavy perfume which she always associated with Baroudi, and now with the whole of the East, and with all Eastern things.

That racing dromedary had surely carried her through the night from one world to another.  Suddenly she felt tired; she felt that she longed to lie down upon those great silk cushions, between those coloured walls of silk that shut out the windy darkness and the sad spaces of the sands, and to stay there for a long time.  The courtesan’s lazy, luxurious instinct drowsed within her soul, and her whole body responded to this perfumed warmth, to this atmosphere of riches created by the man before her in the core of desolation.

She sighed, and looked at his eyes.

“And how is Mr. Armeen?” he said, with the faintly ironic inflection which she had noticed in their first interview alone.  “Has he gone out after the jackal?”