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She was just about to get up, when two men, one English, the other American, came up the steps and sat down at a table near her. One of these men was Starnworth, whom she did not know, and of whom she had never heard. He ordered an apéritif, and plunged into conversation with his companion. They talked about Cairo. Mrs. Armine sat still and listened.
And the old Frenchwoman had befriended that man for over sixteen years, had almost brought him up from a boy, had written his letters for him to the tourists and sportsmen whose guide he was. Mahmoud Baroudi would do as much for a woman, once he'd got the madness for her into his body, but he'd do it in a more brainy way." Starnworth talked on and on.
Isaacson had cured him of a malarial fever contracted on one of his journeys. That night they dined together, and after dinner Starnworth took Isaacson to see some of the native quarters of the town. It was towards eleven o'clock when Isaacson found himself sitting in a small, rude café that was hidden in the very bowels of Cairo.
By her lowest powers, the powers that Nigel ignored and thought that he hated though perhaps he too had been partially subject to them she had grasped the sensual nature of the Egyptian. As Starnworth had told Isaacson, Baroudi had within him the madness for women. He had within him the madness for Bella Donna. But he knew how to wait for what he wanted. He was waiting now.
Starnworth, pleased to have an auditor who was much more than merely sympathetic, who understood his Eastern lore as if with a mind of the East, poured forth his curious knowledge. And Isaacson gripped it as only the Jew can grip.
Why had he grown to middle age encompassed by restrictions? A man like Starnworth had a truer conception of life than he. Even now, at this moment, he was not running quite free. And then he thought of the Loulia. Was he not really a man in pursuit? Suppose he gave up this pursuit. No one constrained him to it. He was here with plenty of money, entirely independent.
A youth in skirts began to posture and dance an unfinished dance of the dreamer who has been led by hashish into a world that is sweet and vague. "I'll tell you about him later," whispered Starnworth. That night they sat up in the hotel till the third time of the Moslem's prayer was near at hand.
A tall man, not much over thirty, with light, imaginative, yet penetrating eyes, stood before him, and with a "May I?" sat down beside him, after cordially grasping his hand. "Starnworth, you're one of the few men I might say almost the only man I'm glad to meet at this moment. Where have you just come from, or where are you just going? I can't believe you are going to stay in Cairo." "No.
He listened and listened, saying little, until Starnworth began to speak of the strange immutability that is apparent in Islâm, and of how the East must ever, despite the most powerful outside influences, remain utterly the East. "Or so it seems up to now," he said. He illustrated and emphasized his contention by a number of striking examples.
Starnworth began to describe the native quarters. Presently he spoke of the hashish café to which he had taken Isaacson. He told his friend where it was. Mrs. Armine heard the name of the street, Bab-el Meteira. Then he spoke of the rich Egyptians who frequented the café, and he mentioned the name of Baroudi. Almost immediately afterwards he and his companion got up and strolled into the hotel.
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