pleading, their lids fringed by long feathery lashes
that opened and shut with the movement of a tired
butterfly--sends little thrills of delight scampering
up and down my spine. Bulbuls, timid gazelles, perfumed
narghilehs, anklets of beaten gold strung with
turquoise, tinkling cymbals, tiny turned-up slippers
with silk tassels on their toes--everything that told
of the intoxicating life of the East were mirrored in
their unfathomed depths.

Most of these qualities, I am aware, are found in
many another pair of lambent, dreamy eyes half-
hidden by the soft folds of a yashmak--eyes which
these houris often flash on some poor devil of a
giaour, knowing how safe they are and how slim his
chance for further acquaintance. Strange tales are
told of their seductive power and strange disappearances
take place because of them. And yet I saw
at a glance that there was nothing of all this in her
wondering gaze. Her eyes, in fact, were fixed neither
on Joseph nor on me, nor did they linger for one
instant on the beautiful mosque. It was my canvas
that held their gaze. Men and mosques were old
stories; pictures of either as astounding as a glimpse
into heaven.

Again Joe bent his head and whispered to me, his
glance this time on the mosque, on the hill, on the
cafe, where Yusuf sat sipping his coffee, talking to
me all the time out of the corner of his mouth.