A few moments after a voice that she had not heard before made her look
up.

The young Arab who had ridden in with the Sheik was standing beside the
divan. The fierce eyes that were watching her every movement met hers,
and his cigarette was waved towards the young man. "My lieutenant,
Yusef, a son of the desert with the soul of a _flaneur._ His body
is here with me, but his heart is on the _trottoirs_ of Algiers."

The tall lad laughed and salaamed profoundly, then straightened
himself, posing magnificently until a curt word from the Sheik recalled
him to his errand and his swagger changed swiftly to a deference of
which the significance was not lost on Diana. The Arab might unbend to
his people if it so pleased him, but he kept them well in hand. She
looked at the lieutenant as he stood before his chief. He was tall and
slender as a girl, with an air of languid indolence that was obviously
a pose, for it was slipping from him now fast as he talked. His face
was strikingly handsome, only saved from effeminacy by a firm chin. He
was patently aware of his good looks. But he was also patently in awe
of his chief, and the news that he brought was apparently not welcome.

Through her thick lashes Diana watched them intently. The younger man
voluble, gesticulating, at times almost cringing. The Sheik silent,
except for an occasional word, the heavy scowl back on his face,
growing blacker every moment. At last with a shrug of impatience he got
up and they went out together, the hound following them. Diana subsided
on to the thick rug beside the bookcase. For a moment again she was
alone, free of the watching eyes that seemed to be burning into her all
the time, free of the hated proximity. She dropped her head on her