“Oh, yes, Madame, when I am alone. But with ladies--” “You were here last night, weren’t you, with the traveller from the hotel?” “No, Madame. The Monsieur of the hotel preferred to visit the café of the story-teller, which is far more interesting. If Madame will permit me to take her--” But this last assault was too much for the poet’s philosophy. He suddenly threw off all pretence of graceful calm, and poured out upon Hadj a torrent of vehement Arabic, accompanying it with passionate gestures which filled Suzanne with horror and Domini with secret delight. She liked this abrupt unveiling of the raw. There had always lurked in her an audacity, a quick spirit of adventure more boyish than feminine. She had reached the age of thirty-two without ever gratifying it, or even fully realising how much she longed to gratify it. But now she began to understand it and to feel that it was imperious. “I have a barbarian in me,” she thought. “Batouch!” she said sharply. The poet turned a distorted face to her. “Madame!” “That will do. Take us to the dancing-house.” Batouch shot a last ferocious glance at Hadj and they went on into the crowd of strolling men. The little street, bright with the lamps of the small houses, from which projected wooden balconies painted in gay colours, and with the glowing radiance of the moon, was mysterious despite its gaiety, its obvious dedication to the cult of pleasure. Alive with the shrieking sounds of music, the movement and the murmur of desert humanity made it almost solemn. This crowd of boys and men, robed in white from head to heel, preserved a serious grace in its vivacity, suggested besides a dignified barbarity a mingling of angel, monk and nocturnal spirit. In the distance of the moonbeams, gliding slowly over the dusty road with slippered feet, there was something soft and radiant in their moving whiteness. Nearer, their pointed hoods made them monastical as a procession stealing from a range of cells to chant a midnight mass. In the shadowy dusk of the tiny side alleys they were like wandering ghosts intent on unholy errands or returning to the graveyard. On some of the balconies painted girls were leaning and smoking cigarettes. Before each of the lighted doorways from which the shrill noise of music came, small, intent crowds were gathered, watching the performance that was going on inside. The robes of the Arabs brushed against the skirts of Domini and Suzanne, and eyes stared at them from every side with a scrutiny that was less impudent than seriously bold. “Madame!” Hadj’s thin hand was pulling Domini’s sleeve. “Well, what is it?” “This is the best dancing-house. The children dance here.”