It was utter madness. Where, in the map of Africa, would he hide her? And how would he take care of her? What would he do to her? Make love to her? Marry her? Take home a wife from an Egyptian harem--a surprising acquisition with which to startle and enchant his decorous family in East Middleton! And a pretty end to his work here, his reputation, his responsibilities-- It was madness. And the fact that the thought had presented itself, even for his flouting mockery, indicated that he was mad. He told himself to be careful. Better men than he had everlastingly done for themselves because upon a night of stars and moonshine some dark-eyed girl had played the very devil with their common sense. He reminded himself that he had never set eyes on her until last night, that she might be the consummate perfection of a minx, that there might not be a word of truth in all of this. This general, now! Sudden. Not a word about it last night. And now-- He had an inkling that even Mohammedan fathers do not rush matters at such a pace. For all he knew the girl might be inventing this general--for some artless reasons of her own. For all he knew she might be married to him and desirous of escape. But he didn't believe it. She was too young and shy and virginal. The accents of her candor rebuked his skepticism. He merely told himself these things because the last vestige of his expiring common sense was prompting him. And after all these creditable and excellent exhortations, to the utter extinction of the last vestige of that common sense he heard himself saying abruptly, "But isn't there anything in the world that I can do--?" "Nothing, monsieur." "But for you to submit--like this--" "It is not to be helped." "But it _is_ to be helped--if you really dislike it," he added jealously. "I cannot help it, because--because my father--" She hesitated. The honor of her father and her family pride and affection were all involved, yet suddenly the sacrifice of these became more tolerable than to consent to that image of herself which she saw swiftly defining itself in his mind, that slight, weak creature, whose acquiescent passivity submitted to this marriage. The thought was unbearable. She was burning beneath her veil. She would tell him.... And perhaps she was not averse, in her childish pride, to the pitiful glory of having him see her in the beauty of her filial sacrifice. "My father has--has done something against the English laws," she faltered, "and Hamdi Bey, this general, knows of it, and will inform unless--unless my father makes this marriage. A cousin of his has seen me," she added, her young vanity forlornly rearing its head, "and told Hamdi that I am not--not too ill-looking a girl--" Her essay of a laugh died. Ryder's look deepened its sharp, defensive concentration. "This is true--I mean your father is not just putting something over--telling you to get your consent?"