SHE stood near a window, where she had been watching the fantastic life of the roadway below; and neither Diana of Poitiers nor Mlle. de L'Enclos, nearest and most famous rivals of Aurélie Momoro, could have looked more imposingly and mysteriously beautiful in a brown travelling suit made by a modern tailor. Travelling bags, packed and locked, were upon a table, and the two fur coats she had with her during the excursion by motor hung over the backs of two chairs.
She gave Ogle a smile somewhat inscrutable, though there seemed to be a wistfulness about it. "Come to the window for a moment," she said. "A long caravan is just passing; shaggy old camels and worn-out donkeys and lean goats and dogs—Nomads coming in from far down in the Desert. You must see them."
"No, I thank you," he said, and, after looking at him quickly, she turned from the window to face him; but she no longer smiled.
