Diana read eagerly. Anything fresh to read was precious. She looked
like a slender boy in the soft riding-shirt and smart-cut breeches, one
slim foot in a long brown boot drawn up under her, and the other
swinging idly against the side of the divan. She finished her coffee
hastily, and, lighting a cigarette, leaned back with a sigh of content
over the magazine.

Two months had slipped away since her mad flight, since her dash for
freedom that had ended in tragedy for the beautiful Silver Star and so
unexpectedly for herself. Weeks of vivid happiness that had been mixed
with poignant suffering, for the perfect joy of being with him was
marred by the passionate longing for his love. Even her surroundings
had taken on a new aspect, her happiness coloured everything. The
Eastern luxury of the tent and its appointments no longer seemed
theatrical, but the natural setting of the magnificent specimen of
manhood who surrounded himself by all the display dear to the heart of
the native. How much was for his own pleasure and how much was for the
sake of his followers she had never been able to determine. The
beauties and attractions of the desert had multiplied a hundred times.
The wild tribesmen, with their primitive ways and savagery, had ceased
to disgust her, and the free life with its constant exercise and simple
routine was becoming indefinitely dear to her. The camp had been moved
several times--always towards the south--and each change had been a
source of greater interest.

And since the night that he had carried her back in triumph he had been
kind to her--kind beyond anything that she had expected. He had never
made any reference to her fight or to the death of the horse that he
had valued so highly; in that he had been generous. The episode over,