men, the old men, who did not bow down to her; but from middle-age, as
from eld, she had a sanguine aversion. She could love none but a
youth. Nor--though she herself, womanly, would utterly abase herself
before her ideal--could she love one who fell prone before her. And
before her all youths always did fall prone. She was an empress, and
all youths were her slaves. Their bondage delighted her, as I have
said. But no empress who has any pride can adore one of her slaves.
Whom, then, could proud Zuleika adore? It was a question which
sometimes troubled her. There were even moments when, looking into her
cheval-glass, she cried out against that arrangement in comely lines
and tints which got for her the dulia she delighted in. To be able to
love once--would not that be better than all the homage in the world?
But would she ever meet whom, looking up to him, she could love--she,
the omnisubjugant? Would she ever, ever meet him?

It was when she wondered thus, that the wistfulness came into her
eyes. Even now, as she sat by the window, that shadow returned to
them. She was wondering, shyly, had she met him at length? That young
equestrian who had not turned to look at her; whom she was to meet at
dinner to-night . . . was it he? The ends of her blue sash lay across
her lap, and she was lazily unravelling their fringes. "Blue and
white!" she remembered. "They were the colours he wore round his hat."
And she gave a little laugh of coquetry. She laughed, and, long after,
her lips were still parted in a smile.

So did she sit, smiling, wondering, with the fringes of her sash
between her fingers, while the sun sank behind the opposite wall of
the quadrangle, and the shadows crept out across the grass, thirsty
for the dew.