by hand and fantastically embroidered in a riot of colour were full of oriental poetry
"But they are truly lovely," I cried. "They're better than your French clothes. Any woman would look adorable in them. I wish you would wear them."
Nashan only snatched them from my hands and stamped on them again.
As the date of her marriage drew near, I heard that there were scenes of rebellion and tears of helplessness, but her father held fast to his purpose, and the marriage took place. I did not go to it. I was engrossed with my own troubles at the time, and besides I did not wish to be present at what I considered the immolation of a woman.
Two days after the wedding, a note reached me from her saying: "Will you come and spend the day with me?"
I went to her new home in Stamboul—fortunately free from his relatives since these all lived in Anatolia. She was seated in a vast, bare, oriental room which contrasted strangely with her French gown and Parisian coiffure. There were no traces of tears on her face such as I had expected to find; her pupils only seemed larger, and her eyes were shining with a combativeness which I had felt was in her, but which I had not encountered before.
Silently we embraced each other.
"Is he dreadful?" I whispered.
