“An Ouled,” he replied, “is a dancing-girl from the desert of Sahara.” “_Mon Dieu!_ How does she dance? Is it a valse, a polka, a quadrille?” “No. Would that it were!” And Mr. Greyne, unable further to govern his desire for full expression, gave Mademoiselle Verbèna a slightly Bowdlerised description of the dances of the desert. She heard him with amazement. “How terrible!” she exclaimed when he had finished. “And does one pay much to see such steps of the Evil One?” “I gave her twenty pounds. Abdallah Jack⸺” “Abdallah Jack?” “My guide informed me that was the price. He tells me it is against the law, and that each time an Ouled dances she risks being thrown into prison.” “Poor lady! How sad to have to earn one’s bread by such devices, instead of by teaching to the sweet little ones of monsieur the sympathetic grammar of one’s native country.” Mr. Greyne was touched to the quick by this allusion, which brought, as in a vision, the happy home in Belgrave Square before him. “You are an angel!” he exclaimed. Mademoiselle Verbèna shook her head. “And this poor Ouled, you will go to her again?” “Yes. It seems that she is in communication with all the—the—well, all the odd people of Algiers, and that one can only get at them through her.” “Indeed?” “Abdallah Jack tells me that while I am here I should pay her a weekly salary, and that, in return, I shall see all the terrible ceremonies of the Arabs. I have decided to do so⸺” “Ah, you have decided!” For a moment Mr. Greyne started. There seemed a new sound in Mademoiselle Verbèna’s voice, a gleam in her dark brown eyes. “Yes,” he said, looking at her in wonder. “But I have not yet told Abdallah Jack.” The Levantine looked gently sad again. “Ah,” she said in her usual pathetic voice, “how my heart bleeds for this poor Ouled. By the way, what is her name?” “Aishoush.” “She is beautiful?” “I hardly know. She was so painted, so tattooed, so very—so very different from Mrs. Eustace Greyne.” “How sad! How terrible! Ah, but you must long for the dear bonnet strings of madame?” Did he? As she spoke Mr. Greyne asked himself the question. Shocked as he was, fatigued by his researches, did he wish that he were back again in Belgrave Square, drinking barley water, pasting notices of his wife’s achievements into the new album, listening while she read aloud from the manuscript of her latest novel? He wondered, and—how strange, how almost terrible—he was not sure. “Is it not so?” murmured Mademoiselle Verbèna. “Naturally I miss my beloved wife,” said Mr. Greyne with a certain awkwardness. “How is your poor, dear mother?” Tears came at once into the Levantine’s eyes. “Very, very ill, monsieur. Still there is a chance—just a chance that she may not die. Ah, when I sit here all alone in this strange place, I feel that she will perish, that soon I shall be quite deserted in this cruel, cruel world!”