If only Harry Grantham would
talk to her she felt sure he could teach her so much.
There were so many things that puzzled her. She knew that at
twenty-four she was young for a French girl, although as an
Egyptian she would have been considered old. She had been taught
that gold was the key to happiness and that man was the ogre from
whom this key must be wheedled. A ready pupil, Zahara had early
acquired the art of attracting, and now at twenty-four she was a
past mistress of the Great Craft, and as her mirror told her,
more beautiful than she had ever been.
Therefore, what did Agapoulos see in Safiyeh?
It was a problem which made Zahara's head ache. She could not
understand why as her power of winning men increased her power to
hold them diminished. Safiyeh was a mere inexperienced child--
yet Agapoulos had brought her to the house, and Zahara, wise in
woman's lore, had recognized the familiar change of manner.
It was a great problem, the age-old problem which doubtless set
the first silver thread among Phryne's red-gold locks and which
now brought a little perplexed wrinkle between Zahara's
delicately pencilled brows.
It had not always been so. In those early days in Cairo there
had been an American boy.
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