"Yavroum, have you ever seen Nouri Pasha's children?"
"Yes," I answered, "I have seen them all: the three little girls, and the tiny little boy."
"Tell me about them."
I told her all I knew, and especially of the little man who was less than a year old. I had seen him just before we came to spend the summer in Pantich. His mother had been ill ever since his birth and could not nurse him, and thus he had a French nounou, who wore yards and yards of ribbon on her bonnet.
That night was the first time that my Lady of the Fountain was pathetically human. She thirsted for every scrap of news I was able to give her about these children who were not hers, but the man's who had put her aside. When she left me she did not go to her own room, but downstairs, and I heard her opening the door leading out on the terrace below. Thinking about her I fell asleep, and when, several hours later, I awoke again, the pathos of her life was magnified to me by the darkness and stillness of the night. I rose from my bed, and went to her room, to tell her how much I at least loved her.
She was not there, and her bed was undisturbed.
Where could she be? I crept cautiously downstairs, and through the open doorway out on the terrace.
She sat huddled in a corner, watching the sea,
