In the sandy lane outside the Camerons’ garden-gate some carriages already waited; a saddle-horse or two and many donkeys, all in charge of servants, twitched their ears and swished their tails in the deep shadow by the wall. Barakah felt disappointed and annoyed. It seemed that she had lighted on a great reception, when her desire had been a quiet chat with Mrs. Cameron. Prevision of GhandÛr’s amazement if she gave the order to turn back, and the satisfaction which her quick return would give the mother of propriety, made her go on; but she determined to stay only a few minutes and then walk home, the evening being cool, to spend the time. With this in view, upon alighting she gave money to GhandÛr, bidding him dismiss the carriage and himself go home. He made a good deal of remonstrance, but at last submitted, understanding that the people of the house would furnish means of transit. He considered it his place, however, to remain in waiting.

Barakah then went in, much hampered by the stare of squatting servants which seemed to cling like fetters to her ankles. A Berberi butler ushered her into the drawing-room and announced her with the single word:

“HarÎm.”

The room was even fuller than she had expected. Her entrance seemed to cause a great sensation. Her heart sank, there was singing in her ears; she encountered all those faces with a sense of drowning. Moving mechanically in a trance of apprehension, it was with surprise a minute later that she found herself ensconced in a deck-chair beside an open window, alive and quite uninjured, though her pulse beat high. She removed her mouth-veil then and looked about her. It seemed to be a gathering of the whole English colony, with the addition of some French and German ladies. The Consul, her aversion, was talking with some other men, who formed a standing group. He took no notice of her, rather pointedly. The women, thirty at the least, kept up a din of chatter.

The hostess came and introduced her to the ladies near her. Though the manner in which this was done was very kind, Barakah felt that Mrs. Cameron disliked her coming. That lady looked upon her as a fallen creature, to be visited and seen occasionally out of charity, no longer to be classed with English women. The prejudice stung Barakah to downright impudence. Abashment left her. She began to chatter and laugh loudly just to let her hostess know that she was somebody. Sipping her tea, she talked of harÎm life, deriding the false notions which prevailed concerning it. It was perfectly delightful, not a bit what Europeans thought. She proceeded to retail her own experiences. In a trice she gathered half a score of eager listeners.

But is not this or that the case invariably? they inquired. She was able to confute them always, with amusing instances. She sank her voice, the listening heads drew nearer; there were stifled giggles. Certain stories she had picked up from Gulbeyzah were quite killing. She told of the old woman who was set to guard her—“an Oriental Mrs. Grundy,” she assured them—and her horror at her going out alone that afternoon.

“But my husband doesn’t mind a bit, of course. The dear man lets me do just what I like. It is only middle-class people nowadays who are strict about seclusion.... Oh, by the way, do you know Princess AmÎnah?...”

She had never in her life talked so effectively. The stored frivolity of weeks was spent in one short hour; while with the tail of an eye she noted Mrs. Cameron’s disgust at her small social triumph, the shrugs and glances she exchanged with her own kind.

While her success was at its height, she readjusted her white muslin mouth-veil and got up to go.

“Thank you for a most delightful hour,” she gushed at taking leave, receiving in reply a look which plainly said: “You have deteriorated.”

Going out upon the wave of her excitement, she suddenly remembered that she had dismissed her carriage. It was no matter. The distance to be traversed was no more than half a mile, the road a straight one, shady at that hour. The little walk would serve to cool her wits.

But GhandÛr, who was squatting by the outer door, sprang up at sight of her. He bade her “Wait!” with a profusion of engaging grins and frantic gestures. Taking her assent for granted, when she stopped to argue, he set off down the lane at a great pace, trailing a plume of dust from either heel.

Seeing she still moved on, despite her servant’s warning, the doorkeeper of the house stepped forward and, saluting, begged her to return indoors. When she refused, he shrugged despairingly and with some word which sounded like an oath went back to his own seat. The waiting grooms and donkey-boys called out, and standing together in a little crowd stared after her. She thought them merely rude.

She moved against the stream of country people returning homeward from their business in the city. They stared at her in passing, and occasionally made remarks which sounded friendly. The dust raised by the trail of robes, and by the donkeys’ hoofs, was some annoyance; but the dust itself became a splendour where the sunset caught it; the shadows were deep blue, enhancing colours of the crowd; and the balm of evening was in every breath she drew. To Barakah, who had not walked for months, the very motion was a comfort. She stepped forward briskly, musing on the scene she had just quitted.

What were those women saying of her now? Mrs. Cameron was no doubt declaiming, and they all agreed with her. Every word that she had said was turned against her. On that perception she was filled with shame. The unkindness, the indecency of holding up her husband’s people to provide amusement for a hostile race appeared unthinkable, the basest treachery. A wave of tenderness for YÛsuf, for GhandÛr, the slave-girls, even the old woman,—all the home surroundings,—overcame her; while her mind abhorred the frigid, callous English, who had lured her on to make a mock of her. Why should she ever see them more? She hated them. Phrases which had passed her lips ten minutes since were now abominable—a source of shame that could not cease, it seemed, but must flow on for ever till the end of time. How had she uttered them? It was their fault for scorning her, for placing her on an unnatural footing, making speech a pitfall. The harÎm was her natural refuge, her true home. She never wished to quit its shade again.

Thus fiercely musing, she pursued the sandy lane until she reached a point where a road branched off from it at right angles.

Upon the corner stood a whitewashed shrine, pink in the glow of sunset, the crescent flashing on its egg-like dome; beside it a great tree under whose foliage a crowd of men were sitting out on stools, smoking and drinking coffee in the shade. Some of these took notice of her, pointing rudely, attracting the attention of the others and the passers-by. Supposing something wrong with her attire, she quickened step. Her road ran through a village. She heard shouts and laughter. A well-dressed man strode past her from behind, and turning searched her eyes. Spurred now by fear, she tried to hurry on; but found herself the centre of a crowd, whose members, moving with her, jabbered, pointed, jeered. One tweaked her habbarah; another seized her arm as if to feel the muscle. Her heart beat loud, her throat was choked with sobs repressed by terror.

The mob grew every moment bolder in its menace. A stalwart peasant-woman barred the way before her, grinning—prepared, it seemed, to pluck away her mouth-veil.

Barakah had paused, cowering, not knowing where to turn for succour, when the shout of a familiar voice relieved the strain and let her tears have vent. GhandÛr came on the scene, leading a saddled ass. His explanations soon dispersed the mob. He lifted her upon the donkey; and in a moment, as things happen in a dream, she was at home again, confronting YÛsuf, who approached the gate as they arrived.

He seemed thunderstruck at her appearance. Hearing GhandÛr’s story, he asked God for help, and raised his arm to strike her. She fell fainting at his feet.