“You asked for a private interview. It is a little unusual, I believe, in this country; but I granted your request upon the understanding that you have important secrets to communicate, as stated in your letter. Let me see—ah, here it is!”

The English official—a broad-shouldered, fresh-complexioned man inclined to baldness—having studied her appearance through a monocle, let fall that weapon and, disturbing papers on his desk, produced the letter she had written to him, which looked somehow pitiful.

“I am an English lady. My name is Mary Smith. I did a very wicked thing. I turned Mahometan, and married a Turkish gentleman, a Pasha, here in Cairo. I want to leave him and return to Christianity. I am an English lady, by name Mary Smith; not what they call me. I am prepared to take my oath that this is true, and Mrs. Cameron can tell you—I must get away!”

“What is all this, and who is Mrs. Cameron? In what way does your private history concern me? I beg you to pass on to the important statement which you have to make.”

“I ask your help to get away from the harÎm.”

At that the Englishman resumed his eyeglass and surveyed her with a slight gape of amazement.

The scene of conversation was a large room, sparsely furnished with a desk, a table and a few plain chairs. The light from the high window shone on Barakah who, to prove that she was really English, had removed her face-veil. The critic’s wondering stare first made her conscious of the discrepancy with her request of highly raddled cheeks and lips, and kohled eyes—the touches Umm ed-Dahak had declared so beautiful. She was not a European any longer. Her very words resounded with a foreign accent. From the moment of her entering the presence of this hateful man, she had been persuaded of the folly of her errand, out of heart with it. Her speech, when uttered, carried no conviction.

“Indeed, indeed, I am an Englishwoman,” she persisted, with a kind of whimper. “I want to get away from here and lead a Christian life.”

But while she spoke the words her hands were busy readjusting the white muslin mouth-veil as a step towards going.

The great official shrugged his shoulders “Is that all you have to say?”

“Perhaps—I mean, I know that I did wrong to come here.” She was quivering from head to foot with shame. The act of sitting on a chair embarrassed her. She was completely out of touch with English ways.

“Well, I don’t quite see what I can do for you,” said her appraiser, in a tone of bland reproach. “You see we are here as guardians of the laws and customs of the country. We could hardly, therefore, interfere in a case such as yours—a harÎm quarrel. As for the religious controversy, I can tell you we avoid it like hot coals. Our one desire is to uphold the institutions of the country. Really, my dear lady, I think the only thing for you to do is to go straight home and make the best of it.”

At that she rose. He passed before her to the door and held it open. She thought of offering her hand, but his grand bow forbade it; and she went out in profound humiliation.

“Well, art thou happy?” chuckled Umm ed-Dahak, still believing that she was the servant of a criminal intrigue. She prattled merrily till they regained the carriage and were driving homeward, when she noticed that her lady trembled and looked sad.

“Alas!” she cried. “My dove, my poor one, is it so? Woe, woe for womankind! There comes a time to all of us when love escapes.”

But Barakah surveyed a wider disillusion.

Until just now she had been strong in the conceit that she was different from Eastern women, recognizably of higher race. From her dreams with Umm ed-Dahak, built on memories of Mrs. Cameron’s entreaties and the Consul’s arguments, she had derived the notion that she was of value to the English, who would fain reclaim her. Now that mirage, born of the sleepy harÎm atmosphere, was swept away; and she was nothing. With English people, she would always long for Orientals; with Orientals, feel a yearning for the life of Europe.

And in religion, likewise, she was nothing. A Christian by conviction after years of scoffing, she was doomed to play the part of a Mahometan, to lose her soul. And she was glad to be returning to the life so lately dreaded, the vision of herself in English eyes had so appalled her. Well, she was nothing, and her soul of small account. The harÎm was her natural home; the teaching of the wise and kindly Prophet her protection. She now beheld the vanity of all her struggles, the vulgarity of much concern about the future. God was merciful! In self-annihilation there was peace. Thus through her striving after Christianity she reached at last the living heart of El IslÂm.