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 Once more he buried himself in wise books; once more he delved into his mind for some clue to his mission. Solitary trips to the desert became more frequent; and every day he sought poise and direction by suspending all thought for a half-hour in a sort of waking trance—a trick he had learned, after long practice, through contact with the followers of adepts in ancient religions.

For some months his only definite aim had been to make his friend see, by subtle contrasts, the unwisdom of linking himself irrevocably to the Armenian "dactylo." After a good deal of scheming, he had introduced Pat into the houses of most of the people whom it was to Pat's advantage to cultivate. In these houses Pat had dined and danced with English, American and French girls with whom he must inevitably have compared his clever but unpresentable little fiancée. The subject of his marriage was never discussed, but Paul had intuitively known that the plans were not going forward smoothly.

Then one day he arrived at the office to find Pat bearing the brunt of a stormy scene. Mademoiselle was sitting pale, hard-eyed, silent, unhappy, while Pat, in his most unbridled American, parried thrusts levelled at him in broken English by Mademoiselle's exasperated father and brother and uncle—an unappetizing crew.

Paul withdrew hastily to the domain of Abdul and the Sudanese porters, but remained in the building until he heard the angry visitors descending the stairs. To his surprise Mademoiselle followed them. In her little black dress and coquettish high-heeled slippers, she looked old and defeated. Paul pitied her, but still resented her hold over his friend. Except for the hat she wore, she might have been mistaken for a venturesome Turkish woman abroad without a veil. The flabby white skin, the coal-black brows setting off her unpleasantly large eyes, the childlike steps and bearing, were suggestive of a harem.