“I’m sorry to have—­” I began.  I stopped short.  I could scarcely believe my eyes.  There, conversing with Pasquale and lolling on the sofa, as if she had known him for years, was Carlotta.

She must have seen righteous disapprobation on my face, for she came running up to me.

“You see, I’ve made Miss Carlotta’s acquaintance,” said Pasquale.

“So I perceive,” said I.

“Stenson told me you wanted me to come to the drawing-room in my red slippers,” said Carlotta.

“I am afraid Stenson must have misdelivered my message,” said I.

“Then you do not want me at all, and I must go away?”

Oh, those eyes!  I am growing so tired of them.  I hesitated, and was lost.

“Please let me stay and talk to Pasquale.”

“Mr. Pasquale,” I corrected.

She echoed my words with a cooing laugh, and taking my consent for granted, curled herself up in a corner of the sofa.  I resumed my seat with a sigh.  It would have been boorish to turn her out.

“This is much nicer than Alexandretta, isn’t it?” said Pasquale familiarly.  “And Sir Marcus is an improvement on Hamdi Effendi.”

“Oh, yes.  Seer Marcous lets me do whatever I like,” said Carlotta.

“I’m shot if I do,” I exclaimed.  “The confinement of your existence in the East makes you exaggerate the comparative immunity from restriction which you enjoy in England.”

I notice that Carlotta is always impressed when I use high sounding words.

“Still, if you could make love over garden walls, you must have had a pretty slack time, even in Alexandretta,” said Pasquale.

Obviously Carlotta had saved me the trouble of explaining her.

“I once met our friend Hamdi,” Pasquale continued.  “He was the politest old ruffian that ever had a long nose and was pitted with smallpox.”

“Yes, yes!” cried Carlotta, delighted.  “That is Hamdi.”

“Is there any disreputable foreigner that you are not familiar with?” I asked, somewhat sarcastically.

“I hope not,” he laughed.  “You must know I had got into a deuce of a row at Aleppo, about eighteen months ago, and had to take to my heels.  Alexandretta is the port of Aleppo and Hamdi is a sort of boss policeman there.”

“He is very rich.”

“He ought to be.  My interview with him cost me a thousand pounds—­the bald-headed scoundrel!”

“He is a shocking bad man,” said Carlotta, gravely.

“I’m afraid it is Mr. Pasquale who is the shocking bad man,” I said, amused.  “What had you been doing in Aleppo?”

“Maxime debetur,” said he.

“English are very wicked when they go to Syria,” she remarked.

“How can you possibly know?” I said.

“Oh, I know,” replied Carlotta, with a toss of her chin.

“My friend,” said Pasquale, lighting a cigarette, “I have travelled much in the East, and have had considerable adventures by the way; and I can assure you that what the oriental lady doesn’t know about essential things is not worth knowing.  Their life from the cradle to the grave is a concentration of all their faculties, mortal and immortal, upon the two vital questions, digestion and sex.”