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Updated: June 20, 2025
Yet she felt that behind his praise there lurked immeasurable reservations, and she remembered the time when her chef was the most famous in London, a marvel who had been bribed by a millionaire lover of hers to leave the service of a royalty to bring his gift to her. She mentioned this fact to Baroudi.
She almost threw herself down the bank. "Where is the boat ah!" She stumbled as she got into it, and nearly fell. "Push off!" She sat straight up on the hard, narrow bench, and stared at the lights on the Loulia. "There's a girl on board," she said, in a minute. "Yes, my lady, one girl. Whether Mahmoud Baroudi likin' we comin' I dunno." "Ibrahim!" "My lady!"
That man could be pitiless, but not to Nigel. And could he ever be pitiless to her without being pitiless to Nigel? She looked at the water, and now stood still. If Baroudi were on board the Loulia to-night, she would get a boat and go to him would not she? and say she could not stand her life any longer, that she must be with him. She would let him treat her as he chose.
Not far away was the Sphinx looking east in the sand! He pottered about his room. He did things very slowly. Eastern life, as it had flowed from the lips of Starnworth, went before his imagination like a great and strange procession. And in this procession Mahmoud Baroudi drove Russian horses, and walked, almost like a mendicant, in a discoloured gibbeh.
But we only saw him about twice, except on the ship coming out. He dined here one night, and the next day we went over the Loulia with him, and we've never set eyes on him since. He went up river, and we went down, to the Fayyūm." "But but you went off alone to the Fayyūm, didn't you? At first, I mean?" "Oh, yes. The morning after Baroudi had sailed for Armant." "And Mrs.
That sentence came back to her mind. Flights of the imagination were useless. It was no use now to give the reins to imagination. Baroudi must come up the river. He must be coming up, or the Loulia would surely not be tied up against the western shore. But perhaps she was there only for the night. Perhaps she would sail on the morrow. Mrs.
The warmth of the atmosphere was like satin about her body. She heard a little soft sound. An orange had dropped from a branch into the scarlet tangle of the geraniums. "Why don't you talk to me?" she said to Baroudi. But she said it with a lazy indifference.
That night, without being aware of it, Mrs. Armine crossed a Rubicon. She crossed it when she came out of the big tent into the sands to go back to the camp by the lake. While she had been with Baroudi the sky had partially cleared. Above the tents and the blazing fire some stars shone out benignly.
She knew men as a race au fond knew their fickleness, swift forgetfulness, readiness to be content with the second best, so different from the far greater Epicureanism of women; knew their uneasy appetites, their lack of self-restraint; and, adding to this sum of knowledge her personal knowledge of Baroudi as a young, strong, and untrammelled man of the East, she was confronted with visions which tortured her cruelly.
"Ibrahim," she almost whispered, "is Baroudi on board the Loulia?" "Yes, my lady." She could hardly repress an exclamation. "He is? Ibrahim" in her astonishment she put one hand on his shoulder and grasped it tightly "to-night, as soon as dinner is over, you are to have a felucca ready at the foot of the garden. D'you understand?" He looked at her very seriously.
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