she hurried--fear had already driven her so far. But when she was ready
she did not move from the table beside which she stood. Fear had forced
her to haste, but her still struggling pride would not permit her to
obey her fear any further. She raised her eyes to the glass again,
glowering angrily at the pale reflection, and the old obstinacy mingled
with the new pain that filled them. Must she endure his mocking glance
with chalk-like cheeks and eyes like a beaten hound? Had she not even
courage enough left to hide the fear that filled her with
self-contempt? The wave of anger that went through her rushed the
colour into her face and she leaned nearer the glass with a little
murmur of satisfaction that stopped abruptly as her fingers gripped the
edge of the table, and she continued staring into the mirror not at her
own face, but at the white robes that appeared behind her head,
blotting out the limited view she had had of the room.

The Sheik was standing behind her. He had come with the peculiar
noiseless tread that she had noticed before. He swung her round to look
at her and she writhed under his eyes of admiration, straining from him
as far as his grip allowed. Holding her with one hand he took her chin
in the other and tilted her face up to his with a little smile. "Don't
look so frightened. I don't want anything more deadly than some soap
and water. Surely even an Arab may be allowed to wash his hands?"

His mocking voice and his taunt of fear stung her, but she would not
answer and, with a laugh and a shrug, he lot her go, picking up a razor
from the table and lounging into the bathroom.

With crimson cheeks Diana fled into the outer room, His manner could
not have been more casual if she had been his wife a dozen years. She
waited for him in a tumult of emotions, but with the advent of Gaston