he could have stayed away from the café, he returned at ten o'clock, and
luckily enough was needed. Joseph greeted him effusively. The "mast,"
the thin fellow from Marseilles, had gone home with a splitting
headache. Would Ambroise stay and serve his usual table? To his immense
astonishment and joy he saw her enter alone. He took her wraps and
seated her on her favourite divan near an electric fan. Then he stared
expectantly at the door. But her carriage had driven away. Was a part of
his dream coming true? He closed his eyes, and straightway saw scarlet.
Then he went for wine, without taking her order.

Aholibah was preoccupied. She played with the bracelet on her tawny left
wrist. Occasionally she lifted her glass, or else tossed her hair from
her eyes. If any stranger ventured near her, she began to hum
insolently, or spoke earnestly with Ambroise. He was in the eleventh
heaven of the Persians. Two Ambroises appeared to be in him: one served
his lady, spoke with her; the other from afar contemplated with the
ecstasy of a hasheesh eater his counterfeit brother. It was an exquisite
sensation.

"The purse--has Mademoiselle--" He stammered.

"No," she crisply answered.

"Can it never be duplicated? Perhaps--"

"Never. It is impossible. It was made in Africa."

"But--but--" he persisted. His bearing was so peculiar that she bent
upon him her dynamic gaze.