The hot bath that took the soreness out of her limbs brought back the
colour to her face and lips. She even tubbed her head, rubbing the
glistening curls dry with fierce vigour, striving to rid herself of the
contamination that seemed to have saturated her. Yet the robes against
which they had been pressed were spotless, and the hands that had held
her were fastidiously clean, even to the well-kept nails.

She came back into the bedroom to find Zilah on her knees poring over
her scanty but diverse wardrobe with bewilderment, fingering the
evening dresses with shy hands, and finally submitting tentatively to
Diana the tweed skirt that had been packed with her other things for
the journey when Oran should be reached. But Diana put it aside, and
pointed to the riding clothes she had worn the previous day. In them
she felt more able to face what might be before her, the associations
connected with them seemed to give her moral strength, in them she
would feel herself again--Diana the boy, not the shivering piece of
womanhood that had been born with tears and agony last night. She bit
her lip as she stamped her foot down into the long boot.

She sent the girl away at last, and noticed that she avoided passing
into the adjoining room, but vanished instead through the curtains
leading into the bathroom. Did that mean that in the outer room the
Arab Sheik was waiting? The thought banished the self-control she had
regained and sent her weakly on to the side of the bed with her face
hidden in her hands. Was he there? Her questions to the little
waiting-girl had only been concerned with the whereabouts of the camp
to which she had been brought and also of the fate of the caravan; of
the man himself she had not been able to bring herself to speak. The
strange fear that he had inspired in her filled her with rage and
humiliation. The thought of seeing him again brought a shame that was