In the dark gray eyes
looking up at her she read recognition of her secret. Here was a
man possessing that rare masculine attribute, intuition. Zahara
knew a fear that was half delightful. Fear because she might
fail in either of two ways and delight because the contest was
equal.
"Yes," he replied slowly, "my looks tell the truth. How did you
know?"
Zahara observed that his curiosity had not yet become actual
interest. She toyed with the silken tassel on her robe, tying and
untying it with quick nervous fingers and resting the while
against the side of the carved chair.
"Perhaps because I am so lonely myself," she said. "I matter to
no one. What I do, where I go, if I live or die. It is all----"
She spread her small hands eloquently and shrugged so that
another white shoulder escaped from the Chinese wrapping.
Thereupon Zahara demurely drew her robe about her with a naive
air of modesty which nine out of ten beholding must have supposed
to be affected.
In reality it was a perfectly natural, instinctive movement. To
Zahara her own beauty was a commonplace to be displayed or
concealed as circumstances might dictate. In a certain sense,
which few could appreciate, this half-caste dancing girl and
daughter of El Wasr was as innocent as a baby.
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