air of modesty which nine out of ten beholding must have supposed
to be affected.

In reality it was a perfectly natural, instinctive movement. To
Zahara her own beauty was a commonplace to be displayed or
concealed as circumstances might dictate. In a certain sense,
which few could appreciate, this half-caste dancing girl and
daughter of El Wasr was as innocent as a baby. It was one of the
things which men did not understand. She thought that if Harry
Grantham asked her to go away with him it would be nice to go.
Suddenly she realized how deep was her loathing of this Limehouse
and of the people she met there, who were all alike.

He sat looking at her for some time, and then: "Perhaps you are
wrong," he said. "There may be some who could understand."

And because he had answered her thoughts rather than her words,
the fear within Zahara grew greater than the joy of the contest.

Awhile longer she stayed, seeking for a chink in the armour. But
she failed to kindle the light in his eyes which--unless she had
deluded herself--she had seen there in the past; and because she
failed and could detect no note of tenderness in his impersonal
curiosity:

"You are lonely because you are so English, so cold," she
exclaimed, drawing her robe about her and glancing sideways
toward the door by which Agapoulos might be expected to enter.
"You are bored, yes. Of course. You look on at life. It is not
exciting, that game--except for the players."