Hamdi again exchanged a few sentences in Turkish with Carlotta, and then smiled upon us with the same unruffled suavity. _“Au revoir, Mesdames et Messieurs.”_ With a courteous salute he shuffled back towards the stall-entrance. The tension over, Carlotta broke from me and clutched Pasquale by the arm. “Oh, kill him, kill him, kill him!” she cried in a passionate whisper. He freed himself gently and took out a cigarette case. “Scarcely necessary. He’ll soon die.” And turning to me he added: “Not a sound organ in his body. Besides, it seems to me that if there is any murdering to be done, it’s the business of Sir Marcus.” “There is going to be no murdering,” said I, profoundly disgusted, “and don’t talk in that revolting way about the wretched man dying.” I regained possession of Carlotta who, seeing that I was angry, cast a scared glance at me, and became docile as suddenly as she had grown passionate. I turned to Judith. “Will you ever forgive me--” I began. But the sight of her face froze me. It was white and hard and haggard, and the lips were drawn into a thin line, and the delicate colour she had put upon her cheeks stood out in ghastly contrast. Her dress, like the foam of a summer sea, mocked the winter in her face. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, smiling icily. “I came for a variety entertainment and I have not been disappointed. Good-bye. Perhaps Mr. Pasquale will be so kind as to put me into a cab.” “I will drive you home, if you will allow me,” said Pasquale. We separated, shaking hands as if nothing had happened, as perfunctorily as if we had been the most distant of acquaintances. On our way back we spoke very little. Carlotta nestled close against me, seeking the shelter of my arm. She cried, I don’t know why, but it seemed to afford comfort. I kissed her lips and her hair. At home, I drew the sofa near the fire--it has been a raw night and she feels the cold like a tropical plant--and sat down by her side. “Did you hear what I said to Hamdi Effendi--that you were my wife?” “But that was only a lie,” she answered in her plain idiom. My petting and soothing together with the sense of home security and a cup of French chocolate prepared by Antoinette, who, astonished at our early return and seeing her darling in distress, had hastened to provide culinary consolation, had restored her wonted serenity of demeanour. Polyphemus also purred reassuringly upon her lap. “It was a lie this evening,” said I, “but in a few days I hope it will be true.” “You are going to marry me?” she asked, suddenly sitting erect and looking at me rather bewildered. “If you will have me, Carlotta.” “I will do what Seer Marcous tells me,” she answered. “Will you marry me to-morrow?” “I think it hardly possible, my dear,” I answered. “But I shall lose no time, I assure you. Once you are my wife neither Hamdi Effendi nor the Sultan of Turkey can claim you. No one can take an Englishman’s wife away from him.”