“Alas!” she cried. “My dove, my poor one, is it so? Woe, woe for womankind! There comes a time to all of us when love escapes.”

But Barakah surveyed a wider disillusion.

Until just now she had been strong in the conceit that she was different from Eastern women, recognizably of higher race. From her dreams with Umm ed-Dahak, built on memories of Mrs. Cameron’s entreaties and the Consul’s arguments, she had derived the notion that she was of value to the English, who would fain reclaim her. Now that mirage, born of the sleepy harem atmosphere, was swept away; and she was nothing. With English people, she would always long for Orientals; with Orientals, feel a yearning for the life of Europe.