“Now you are cross with me.”

“Yes,” I said, “infernally angry.”

And I was.  I expected to see her burst into tears.  She did nothing of the kind; only looked at me with irritating demureness.  She wore a red blouse and a grey skirt, and the audacious high-heeled red slippers.  I began to feel the return of my early prejudice against her.  Nobody so alluring could possess a spark of virtue.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said I.  “I make many allowances for your lack of knowledge of our Western customs, but for a young lady to flirt with an ugly red-headed varlet of the lower orders is reprehensible all the world over.”

“He gave me dates and dried fruits with sugar all over them,” said Carlotta.

“Stolen from his employer,” I said.  “I will have that young man locked up in prison, and if you go on receiving his feloniously obtained presents they will put you in prison too, and I shall be delighted.”

Carlotta maintained her demure expression and extracted from her skirt pocket a very dirty piece of paper.

“He writes poetry—­about me,” she remarked, handing me what I recognised as the three-cornered note.

I took the thing between finger and thumb, and glanced over the poem.  I have read much indifferent modern verse in my time—­I sometimes take a slush-bath after tea at the club—­but I could not have imagined the English language capable of such emulsion.  It was execrable.  The first couplet alone contained an idea.

“Thou art a lovely girl and so very nice
I dream till death upon your face.”

To the wretch’s ear it was a rhyme!  I destroyed the noisome thing and cast it into the waste-paper basket.

“Prison,” said I, “would be a luxurious reward for him.  In a properly civilised country he would be bastinadoed and hanged.”

“Yes, he is dam bad,” said Carlotta, serenely.

“Good heavens!” I cried, “the ruffian has even taught you to swear.  If you dare to say that wicked word again, I’ll punish you severely.  What is his horrid name?”

“Pasquale,” said Carlotta.

“Pasquale?”

“Yes, he likes to hear me say ‘dam.’  Oh, the other?  Oh, no, he is too stupid.  He does not say anything.  His name is Timkins.  I only play with him.  He is so funny.  He can go and kill himself; I won’t care.”

“Never mind about Timkins,” said I, “I want to hear about Pasquale.  When did he teach you that wicked, wicked word?”

I think Carlotta flushed as she regarded the point of her red slipper.

“I went for a walk and he met me at the corner and walked here by my side.  Was that wicked?”

“What would the excellent Hamdi Effendi have said to it?”

Woman-like she evaded my question.

“I hope Hamdi is dead.  Do you think so?”

“I hope not.  For if you behave in this naughty manner, I shall have to send you back to him.”