"Yes; and what do you think? There are three dozen Lights. Isn't it a
shame? I thought I should be the only one. And there are two and a
half dozen Sheikhs, and I don't know how many dozen Bedouins. You
are--what are you? You look awfully--awfully--er--I don't quite know
what."

Damaris adjusted the _selva_, the quaint silver kind of tube between
the eyebrows which connects the yashmak and the _tarhah_ or head-veil,
took a final look in the mirror, and rose.

"I am an Egyptian woman of the humblest class."

She was all in black, as befits a member of that class. The simple
bodice, cut in a yoke, of the black muslin dress fitted her like a
glove; the skirt fell in wide folds from the waist and swung about her
ankles encircled by big brass rings, which clashed as she moved. She
wore the black yashmak and _tarhah_; upon her arms were many brass
bracelets which tinkled; on one hand she wore a ring and there were
flesh-coloured silken hose and sandals upon her feet. She had made a
mistake and henna'd her finger-tips, which members of the humblest
class have not time to do--besides, their patient hands matter so
little--and her great eyes looked as black as the yashmak over which
they shone.

Her beautiful face was hidden, yet was she infinitely alluring,
tantilising, mysterious, under her veils.

Heavens! if only women knew how easy it is to enhance the looks by the
simple method of touching up the eyes with _kohl_ and covering the rest