He was contrasting the ghastly nightmare of mud and horrors from
which he had only just emerged with the scene of elegance, of
civilization; around him.

Suddenly, his attention became riveted on the stage. The
atmosphere of the theatre had changed. Always quick at picking up
"influences," Desmond instantly sensed a new mood in the throngs
around him. A presence was in the theatre, an instinct-awakening,
a material influence. The great audience was strangely hushed.
The air was heavy with the tent of incense. The stringed
instruments and oboes in the orchestra were wandering into
rhythmic dropped,

Maurice touched his elbow.

"There she is!" he said.

Desmond felt inclined to shake him off roughly. The interruption
jarred on him. For he was looking at this strangely beautiful
girl with her skin showing very brown beneath a wonderful silver
tiara-like headdress, and in the broad interstices of a
cloth-of-silver robe with short, stiffly wired-out skirt. She was
seated, an idol, on a glittering black throne, at her feet with
their tapering dyed nails a fantastically attired throng of
worshipers.

The idol stirred into life, the music of the orchestra died away.
Then a tom-tom began to beat its nervous pulse-stirring throb,
the strident notes of a reed-pipe joined in and the dancer,
raised on her toes on the dais, began to sway languorously to and