Batouch got up, but at this moment a roguish Arab boy, who sat by the stranger, laughingly spoke to him, pointing to the woman.  The stranger thrust his hand into his pocket, found a coin and, directed by the roguish youth, stuck it upon the dancer’s greasy forehead.  At once she sprang to her feet.  The women twittered.  The music burst into a triumphant melody, and through the room there went a stir.  Almost everyone in it moved simultaneously.  One man raised his hand to his hood and settled it over his forehead.  Another put his cigarette to his lips.  Another picked up his coffeecup.  A fourth, who was holding a flower, lifted it to his nose and smelt it.  No one remained quite still.  With the stranger’s action a strain had been removed, a mental tension abruptly loosened, a sense of care let free in the room.  Domini felt it acutely.  The last few minutes had been painful to her.  She sighed with relief at the cessation of another’s agony.  For the stranger had certainly—­from shyness or whatever cause—­been in agony while the dancer kept her head upon his knees.

His angel had been in fear, perhaps, while his devil——­

But Domini tried resolutely to turn her thoughts from the smiling face.

After pressing the money on the girl’s forehead the man made a movement as if he meant to leave the room, but once again the curious indecision which Domini had observed in him before cut his action, as it were, in two, leaving it half finished.  As the dancer, turning, wriggled slowly to the platform, he buttoned up his jacket with a sort of hasty resolution, pulled it down with a jerk, glanced swiftly round, and rose to his feet.  Domini kept her eyes on him, and perhaps they drew his, for, just as he was about to step into the narrow aisle that led to the door he saw her.  Instantly he sat down again, turned so that she could only see part of his face, unbuttoned his jacket, took out some matches and busied himself in lighting a cigarette.  She knew he had felt her concentration on him, and was angry with herself.  Had she really a spy in her?  Was she capable of being vulgarly curious about a man?  A sudden movement of Hadj drew her attention.  His face was distorted by an expression that seemed half angry, half fearful.  Batouch was smiling seraphically as he gazed towards the platform.  Suzanne, with a pinched-up mouth, was looking virginally at her lap.  Her whole attitude showed her consciousness of the many blazing eyes that were intently staring at her.  The stomach dance which she had just been watching had amazed her so much that she felt as if she were the only respectable woman in the world, and as if no one would suppose it unless she hung out banners white as the walls of Beni-Mora’s houses.  She strove to do so, and, meanwhile, from time to time, cast sideway glances towards the platform to see whether another stomach dance was preparing.  She did not see Hadj’s excitement or the poet’s malignant satisfaction, but she, with Domini, saw a small door behind the platform open, and the stout Kabyle appear followed by a girl who was robed in gold tissue, and decorated with cascades of golden coins.