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Clarke sat with her three guests the Ambassador, Madame Davroulos, the wife of a Greek millionaire whose home was at Smyrna, and Ahmed Bey, one of the Sultan's adjutants. Hadi Bey had long ago passed out of her life. That evening the Ambassador got up to go rather early. His caique was lying against the quay. "Come out by the garden gate, won't you?" said Mrs.
The powerful contralto of Madame Davroulos flowed out from the drawing-room, and her alluring mustache appeared at the lighted French windows. Mrs. Clarke dried her hands with a minute handkerchief, and, without troubling about an explanation, turned away from the rose garden.
Clarke spoke to him in Turkish and he replied. She turned to the Ambassador. "You do want a cup of coffee, don't you?" "If you tell me I do." "By the stream just beyond the lane. And I'll ride home. I've ordered all the things you like best for dinner. Ahmed Bey and Madame Davroulos will make a four." "And Delia and Cyril Vane a two!" "You must try to control your very natural jealousy."
Clarke to him, and she led the way to the tangled rose garden, where sometimes she sat and read the poems of Hafiz. Madame Davroulos was smoking a large cigar in a corner of the drawing-room and talking volubly to Ahmed Bey, who was listening as only a Turk can listen, with a smiling and immense serenity, twisting a string of amber beads in his padded fingers. "He was there?" said Mrs.
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