The next morning the sun streaming into Pansy's bedroom roused her. She awoke with the feeling of having indulged in some delightful dream, which, like all dreams, must melt with the morning.
She thought of the episode with Le Breton in the garden. A gentle look lingered on her face. He was a darling, the nicest man she had ever met; the only one she had ever liked enough to let kiss her; the only one in whose arms she had been content to stay. But about marrying?
A frown came and rested on her white brow.
Marrying was quite another matter. In a month's time,impossible. A thing not to be contemplated.
Pansy sat up suddenly, hugging her knees as she gazed thoughtfully at the brilliant expanse of dancing, shimmering sea that sparkled at her through the open bedroom window.
She, engaged to be married! She who had vowed never to fall in love until forty!
It was love Pansy had wanted in the moonlit garden with Le Breton's arms about her. But it was liberty she wanted now, as she sat hugging her knees, amazed at herself and her own behaviour.
She had bartered her liberty for a man's arms and a few kisses!
Pansy could hardly believe herself capable of such folly.
She had been swept off her feet—over her depth before she knew it.
By daylight her freedom and independence were as sweet to her as Le Breton's love had been by the romantic light of the moon. In the sober light of morning she tried to struggle back to where she had been before the hot flood of love he had poured over her had made her promise more than she was now prepared to fulfill.
"It's a woman's privilege to change her mind."
Pansy grasped at the old adage; but to her a promise was a promise, not lightly given or lightly snatched away. So she did not derive much comfort from dwelling on the old saw.
She was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees and frowning in dire perplexity when her maid came in with the early morning tea. And the frown was there when the woman came to say her bath was ready.
A thoughtful mood enveloped her during her dressing. And out of her musing this note was born:—
"My Dearest Raoul,
I can call you that because you are dearer to me than any one on this earth, dearest beyond all things except my liberty. Do not be horrid and cross when I say I cannot marry you, in spite of all I promised last night. Not for ten years at least. And even then I cannot bind myself in any way, for I might be still hankering after freedom. I do love you really, more than anything in the whole wide world except my independence.
You must not be too hard on me, Raoul. I am not quite the same as other women. It is not every girl of twenty who is her own mistress, with £60,000 a year to do what she likes with. It has made life seem so vast, matrimony such a cramped, everyday affair. And I do not want to handicap myself in any way.
This letter sounds awfully selfish, I know. I am not selfish really. Only I love my liberty. It is the one thing that is dearer to me than you.
Always your lovingPANSY."
When the letter was written, Pansy suddenly remembered she did not know his address.
Once satisfied that he was disinterested, she had bothered about nothing else. And after that one day spent among the red roses he had become something quite apart from the rest of the world, not to be gossiped about to mere people.
However, she knew that twenty pesetas given to the hall-porter would ensure the note reaching its destination. The hotel staff would know where he was staying, even if she did not.
Because the note was to Le Breton, Pansy took it down herself and gave it to the hall-porter. When this was done she wandered as far as the spot where she had made her fleeting vows, to see how it looked by daylight.
She lingered there for some minutes, and then returned to her suite.
In the interval a message had come from Le Breton.
It stood on one of the little tables of her sitting-room—a huge gilded wicker basket full of half-blown, red roses. In the midst of the flowers a packet reposed, tied with red ribbon.
Pansy opened the package.
Inside was the gold casket she had once refused. It was filled with purple pansies, still wet with dew. On them a ring reposed, with one huge sapphire, deeply blue as her own eyes.
There was a note in with the flowers, written in a strong masculine hand.
With a flutter about her heart, Pansy picked it out and read it:—
"Heart's Ease, My Own Dear Little Girl,
This little gift comes to you with all my love, my heart, my soul, my very life indeed, given forever into your keeping.
A week ago, if anyone had told me I should write such words to a woman, I should have laughed at them. Until meeting you I did not know what love was. I had no idea one woman could be so satisfying. In you I have found the heaven I have been searching for all my life. My one houri, and she all-sufficing—my little English flower, so sweet and winsome, so kind and wayward, so teasing and yet so tender, who has brought a new fragrance into my life, a peace my soul has never known till now, a love and gratitude into my heart that will keep me hers for ever.
Your devoted lover now and through all eternity.RAOUL LE BRETON."
As Pansy read the note her lips trembled.
She wished she had never tasted of the sweets of liberty and independence; that the grand-godfather had not left her his millions. She wished she was Pansy Barclay again, a mere girl, not one with enormous riches luring her towards all sorts of goals where love was not. Just Pansy Barclay, who could have met his love with kisses and not a cruel counter note.
Considering it was nearly two in the morning before Le Breton would let Pansy out of his arms, he did not expect her to be out and about at six o'clock for her usual ride. Nevertheless, he looked in at the hotel at that hour and then rode on, indulging in blissful daydreams.
He knew Pansy had no idea who he really was. He was prepared to marry her according to her creed, for her sake to put aside the fierce profligate religion the late Sultan Casim Ammeh had instilled into him.
And he was prepared to do very much more than this.
In spite of his colossal pride in his sultanship and his desert kingdom, he knew that if Pansy got an inkling of that side of his life his case would be hopeless. His one idea was to keep all knowledge of the supposed Arab strain in him from her. The sultanship could go, his kingdom be but a source of income. He would buy a house in Paris. They would settle down there, and he would become wholly the European she imagined him to be.
Full of a future that held nothing but the English girl to whom; he was betrothed, and a desire to keep from her all knowledge of his dark, savage heritage, at least until it would be too late for her to draw back, Le Breton rode on, rejoicing in the early morning freshness that reminded him of the girl he loved.
On returning to the villa he interviewed the head gardener. Then he went to the library to write a note and tie up the package he was sending to Pansy; and from there down to breakfast, a solitary meal with no companion save a few purple pansies smiling at him from a crystal vase.
As he sat at his light repast one of his Arab servants entered with a note on a beaten-gold salver.
Le Breton took it.
On the envelope was just his name, written in a pretty, girlish hand. Although he had never seen Pansy's writing before, he guessed it was hers. A tender smile hovered about his hard mouth as he opened it.
What had she to say to him, this slim, winsome girl, who held his fierce heart in her small white hands? Some fond reply, no doubt, in return for his gifts and flowers. Thanks and words of love that she could not keep until he went round to see her.
There were many things Le Breton expected of Pansy, but certainly not the news the note contained.
He read it through, unable to believe what he saw written before him. And as he read his face lost all its tender, caressing look and took on, instead, a savage, incredulous expression.
Women had always come to him easily, as easily as Pansy herself had come. But they had not withdrawn themselves again: he had done the withdrawing.
For some moments he just stared at the note.
He, flouted and scorned and played with by a girl! He, to whom all women were but toys! He, the Sultan of El-Ammeh!
Le Breton was like one plunged suddenly into an icy cold bath.
The unexpectedness of it all left him numb. Then a surge of hot rage went through him, finally leaving him cold, collected, and furious.
She had dared to scorn him, this English girl! Dared to hurl his love and protestations back into his teeth. Protestations such as he had made to no other woman.
It was the greatest shock and surprise Le Breton had had during the course of his wild life of unquestioned power and limitless money.
He was in no mood to see the love her note breathed. He saw only one fact—that he had been cast aside.
A woman had dared to act towards him as he had often acted towards women.
As he brooded on the note, trying to grasp the almost incredible truth, the cruel look about his mouth deepened.
Putting the note into his pocket, he poured himself another cup of coffee. Then he sat on, staring at the purple pansies, no longer lost in dreams of love and delight, where his one aim was to be all the girl imagined him to be; but in a savage reverie that had love in it, perhaps, but of quite another quality than that which he had already offered.
Full of anger and injured pride as Le Breton was, it did not prevent him going over to the hotel and inquiring for Miss Langham.
He learnt that she was out, on board her yacht. And it seemed to him that she had fled from his wrath.
But he was wrong.
Pansy had gone there knowing he would be sure to come and inquire into the meaning of her note. On board her yacht there was more privacy; a privacy she wanted for Le Breton's sake, not her own. Considering his fiery Latin temperament, he might not take hiscongéin the manner of her more stolid nation. There might be a scene.
She never imagined he would take her decree calmly. There was an air about him as if he had never been thwarted in any way. She was prepared for some unpleasant minutes—minutes, nevertheless, that she had no intention of shirking, which she knew she had brought upon herself by her impetuous promises.
She was sitting alone in her own special sanctum on the yacht.
It was a large saloon—boudoir, music-room, and study combined; white and gold and purple, like herself, with a grand piano in one corner, deep chairs upholstered in yellow with purple cushions, a yellow carpet and white walls and ceiling.
In the midst of it she sat cool and collected, in a simple white yachting suit.
As Le Breton entered she rose, scanning him quickly. She had never seen him so proud and aloof-looking, his face so set and hard. But there was a look of suppressed suffering in his eyes that cut her to the quick.
Neither said a word until the door closed behind the steward.
Then Le Breton crossed to the girl's side.
"What nonsense is this?" he asked in a cold, angry voice, holding her note towards her. "You promised to marry me, and you must carry out your promise. I'm not going to be put lightly to one side in this manner."
"I haven't put you lightly to one side," she answered. "I think I explained exactly how things were in my note."
"Explanations! I'm not here for explanations," he said, with cold impatience; "but to insist that you fulfill your promise."
"I couldn't do that," she replied quietly.
With the air of still moving in the midst of some incredible truth, he stared at her.
"You've been flirting with me," he said presently, a note of savagery and scorn in his voice. "You are a true Englishdemievierge. You rouse a man without the least intention of satisfying him."
Pansy flushed under his contempt. She hated being called "a flirt"; she was not one. She did not know why she had acted as she had done the previous night. But once in his arms, she had wanted to stay. And once he had started talking of love, she wanted to listen. With him she had forgotten all about her own scheme of life and her cherished liberty.
She knew she had not played the game with Le Breton. From the bottom of her heart she was sorry. She did not blame him, but herself.
"I'm not a flirt," she said quietly. "I've never let any man kiss me before. I'm very sorry for all that happened last night."
He laughed in a harsh, grating manner.
"Good God, Pansy! there are a hundred women and more plotting and scheming to try and make me feel for them what I feel for you. And you say you're sorry!"
He broke off, his proud face twisted with pain and chagrin.
Pansy knew his was no idle boast. An army of women must lie in wait for a man of his wealth combined with good looks and such powers of fascination.
"I'm only sorry you picked on me," she said, a note of distress in her voice. "More sorry than I can say. You know I hate giving pain."
Like one dazed, the Sultan Casim Ammeh listened to a woman saying she was sorry he had favoured her as he had no other of her sex—To an extent he had never imagined he would favour any woman, so that he was ready to change his religion, his whole mode of life, for her sake.
"But I couldn't give up my liberty," her voice was saying. "I couldn't get married. And I've a perfect right to change my mind."
"It's not a privilege I intend to allow you," he said in a strangled voice.
"Well, it's one I intend to assert," she answered, suddenly goaded by his imperious attitude.
"You've deliberately fooled me," he said savagely.
"No, I haven't really," she replied, patient again under the pain in the fierce, restless eyes watching her. "I like you immensely, but not enough to marry you."
"I suppose I ought to feel flattered," he said cuttingly.
Pansy laid a hand on his sleeve with a little soothing, conciliatory gesture.
"Don't be so horrid, Raoul. Do try and see things as I see them. I didn't mean to say 'yes' last night; but when you held me in your arms and kissed me there was nothing else I could do."
His name on her lips, her touch on his arm, broke through his seethe of cold anger.
"And if I held and kissed you again, what then?" he asked, suddenly melting.
"Here in the 'garish light of day' it wouldn't alter my intention in the least," she said. "There are so many things that call me in the daytime. But last night, Raoul, there was only you."
He bent over her, dark and handsome, looking the king the Sultan Casim Ammeh had made him.
"Give me the nights, Pansy," he whispered, "and the days I'll leave to you."
"Oh no, I couldn't. Before so long you'd have swallowed up my days too. For there's an air about you as if you wouldn't be satisfied until you had the whole of me. But I shall often think of last night," she went on, a touch of longing in her voice. "In days to come, when we're thousands of miles apart, in the midst of my schemes, when the lights are brightest and the bands their loudest and the fun at its highest, I shall stop all at once with a little pain in my heart and wonder where the nice man is who kissed me under the palms in the Grand Canary. And I shall say to myself, 'Now, if I'd been a marrying sort, I'd have married him.' And twenty years hence, when pleasure palls, I shall wish I had married him; because there'll never be any man I shall like half as much as I like you."
As she talked Le Breton watched her, wild schemes budding and blossoming in his head.
"And I? What shall I be thinking?" he asked.
"You! Oh, you'll have forgotten all about me by next year—Perhaps next month, even," she replied, smiling at him rather sadly. "One girl is much the same to you as the next, provided she's equally pretty. And you'll be thinking, 'What an idiotic fuss I made over that girl I met in Grand Canary. Let me see, whatwasher name? Violet or Daisy, or some stupid flower name. Who said yes in the moonlight, and no in the cool, calm light of day. Good Lord! but for her sense I should be married now. Married! Phew, what an escape! For if she'd roped me in there'd have been no gallivanting with other women'!"
Le Breton laughed.
"Now I'm forgiven," she said quickly.
"Forgiven, Heart's Ease, yes. But whilst there's life in me you'll never be forgotten."
He paused, looking at her speculatively.
"So far as I see, there's nothing between us except that you're too fond of your own way to get married," he remarked presently.
"Yes. I suppose that's it really."
"'If I were a king in Babylon and you were a Christian slave,'" he quoted, "or, to get down to more modern times, if I were a barbaric Sultan somewhere in Africa and you a girl I'd fancied and caught and carried off, I'd just take you into my harem and nothing more would be said."
"I should fight like a wildcat. You'd get horribly scratched and bitten."
"Possibly, but—I should win in the end."
Pansy's face went suddenly crimson under the glowing eyes that watched her with such love and desire in their dark depths.
"I think we're talking a lot of nonsense," she remarked.
"What is it you English say? 'There's many a true word spoken in jest,'" he replied with curious emphasis.
It was not jest to him.
Even as he stood talking to Pansy he was cogitating on how he could best get her into his power, should persuasion fail to bring her back to his arms within a week or two.
His yacht was in the harbour. She was in the habit of wandering about alone. He had half a dozen Arab servants with him, men who would do without question anything their Sultan told them. To abduct her would be an easy matter. Once she was in his power, he would take her to El-Ammeh and keep her there. As his wife, if she would marry him; as his slave, if she would not.
Le Breton had no desire to do any such thing except as a last resource, but he had no intention of letting Pansy go.
Her voice broke into his broodings.
"Since you've been so nice about everything, I'm going to keep you and take you for a cruise round the island. I want to have just one day alone with you, so that in years to come I shall know exactly how much I've missed."
He smiled in a slightly savage manner. It amused him to hear the girl talking as if he were but a pleasant incident in her life, when he intended to be the biggest fact that had ever been there.
"In your way of doing things, Pansy, you remind me rather of myself," he remarked. "You're carrying me off, willy nilly, as I might be tempted to carry you."
"It must be because we're both millionaires," she replied. "Little facts of the sort are apt to make one a trifle high-handed."
She touched a bell.
When a steward appeared she put Le Breton into his care. Leaving the saloon, she went herself to interview the captain about her plans.
She was leaning against the yacht's rail, slim and white, with the breeze blowing her curls when Le Breton joined her. And she smiled at him in a frank, boyish fashion, as if their little difference of opinion had never been.
"What can I do to amuse you?" she asked.
"I don't need any amusing when I'm with you," he said. "You're all-sufficing."
"You mustn't say things like that, Raoul," she replied; "they're apt to make one's decisions wobble."
For Pansy the morning sped quickly. For Le Breton it was part of the dream he had dreamt before her note had come and upset his calculations, making him rearrange his plans in a manner that, although it would give him a certain amount of satisfaction, might not be so pleasing to the girl.
The vessel skirted the rounded island, bringing glimpses of quiet bays where white houses nestled, rocky cliffs, stony barrancos cut deep into the hill-side, and pine-clad heights.
There was a lunchà deux, with attentive stewards hovering in the background. Afterwards they had coffee and liqueurs and cigarettes on deck. An hour or so was dawdled away there, then Pansy took her guest back to her own special sanctum.
He went over to the piano, touching a note here and there.
"Play me something," she said, for he touched the instrument with the hand of a music lover.
"I was brought up in the backwoods," he replied, "and I never saw a piano until I was nearly nineteen. After that I was too busy making money and doing what I thought was enjoying myself to have time to go in for anything of the sort. But I'd like to listen to you," he finished.
Willingly Pansy seated herself at the piano. Le Breton likewise sat himself in a deep chair close by, and gave himself up to the delight of her playing. She wandered from one song to another, quick to see she had an appreciative audience.
In the end she paused and glanced at him as he sat quiet, all his restless look gone, as if at peace with himself and the world.
"Does music 'soothe your savage breast'?" she asked.
"It could never be savage where you're concerned, Pansy,"
"You talk as if I were quite different from other people."
"So you are. The only woman I've ever loved."
"When you talk like that, the wobbling comes on," she remarked.
To avoid his reply, she started playing again.
Getting to his feet, Le Breton went to the piano. Standing behind her, his arms encircling her, he lifted the small, music-making hands from the keys, and holding them, drew her back until her head rested against him.
"Pansy, suppose I consent to a six months' engagement? The waiting would be purgatory; but I could do it with paradise beyond."
"I'm not taking on any engagements. Not for the next ten years, at least."
He laughed softly and put the slim hands back on the piano with a lingering, careful touch, letting them pursue their way. Whether she liked it or not, this lovely, wayward girl would be his before many weeks had passed.
Then he returned to his chair and sat there deep in some reverie, this time not planning the sort of home he would make for her in Paris, but how he would have certain rooms in his palace at El-Ammeh furnished for her reception.
A steward announcing tea brought him out of his meditations.
Tea was served on deck, with the sun glinting on the blue water and running in golden cascades down the hill-side.
Together they watched the sun set and saw night barely shadow the world when the moon rose, filling the scene with silver glory.
Its white light led them back into harbour, and in its flood the two walked to the hotel together.
In the garden Le Breton paused to take leave of his hostess.
"Just one kiss, Heart's Ease, for the sake of last night," he whispered.
Willingly Pansy lifted her flower-like face to his.
"Just one then, Raoul, you darling, since you've been so nice about everything."
As Le Breton stooped to kiss her it seemed to him that he would not have to resort to force in order to get the girl. Only a little patience and persuasion were needed, and he would win her in her own, white, English way.
Along the deserted corridor of the big hotel Pansy was hurrying. Her outing with Le Breton had made her late. By the time she was dressed and ready dinner was well started. She went along quickly, still thinking over the events of the day.
Everything had turned out exactly as she had hoped. She wanted to keep Le Breton's love, and yet not be tied in any way—to have him in the background to marry if, or when, she felt so disposed.
In the full glare of the electric light, going down the wide stairs, she entered the large patio, looking a picture.
She was wearing a dress of some yellow, gauzy material that matched her hair, a garment that clung around her like a sunbeam, bright and shimmering. There were gold shoes on her feet, and around her neck a long chain of yellow amber beads.
As she crossed the big, empty hall, making towards the dining-room, a man rose from his chair—the short, red-faced man from whom Le Breton had rescued her a few nights before.
There was an air about him as if he had been waiting there to waylay her.
Pansy saw him and she swerved slightly, but beyond that she gave him no attention.
However, he was not so easily avoided.
He took up his stand immediately before her, leering at her in a malicious, disagreeable fashion.
"You're fond of chucking red-haired women in my teeth," he said. "Go and chuck 'em at the fellow you were spooning with outside just now."
Annoyed that the man should have witnessed her parting with Le Breton, Pansy would have passed without a word; but he dodged, and was in front of her again.
"At least, she isn't my fancy woman," he went on. "I don't run a villa for her, even if I do admire her looks."
The weight of insinuation in his voice brought the girl to a halt.
"What is it? What do you want to say?" she asked coldly.
"You mean to tell me you don't know Le Breton runs that French actress, Lucille Lemesurier?"
Pansy did not know. Nor did she believe a word the man said.
"How dare you say such things about Mr. Le Breton?" she flashed.
"Hoity-toity! How dare I indeed!"
He laughed coarsely.
"It isn't only me that's talking about it. Everybody knows," he went on.
Everybody didnotknow. Pansy among the number.
"I don't believe a word you say," she said in an angry manner.
"Don't you? All right. Trot along then, and ask the manager. Ask anybody. They're all talking about it. You would be, too, except that you're so conceited that you never come and gossip with the crowd. Ask who is running that villa for Lucille Lemesurier, and they'll tell you it's that high and mighty French millionaire chap, Le Breton, the same as I do."
For a moment Pansy just stared at him, horror and disbelief on her face; then she turned quickly away. She did not go towards the dining-room, but towards the main entrance of the hotel.
She had never troubled to make any inquiries about Le Breton. She had liked him, and that was enough.
Pansy could not believe what the man said.
For all that, she was going to the fountain-head—to Le Breton—to hear what he had to say on the subject.
A flood of light poured out from Le Breton's villa, from wide-open French windows on to a moonlit lawn. Around the house, palms drooped and bamboos whispered. The night was laden with the scent of roses and syringa, and about the fragrant shrubs fireflies glinted like showers of silver sparks.
In one of the apartments opening on the lawn Le Breton sat at dinner with Lucille, over a little round table, sparkling with crystal and gold, where pink-shaded electric lights glowed among banks of flowers.
It was a large room, lavishly furnished, with priceless rugs, and furniture that might have come out of some Paris museum. There were three Arab servants in attendance, deft-handed, silent men, well trained, and observant, who waited upon their master as if their lives held nothing but his wishes and desires.
Opposite to him Lucille sat, in a white satin gown that left none of her charms to the imagination, with the emerald necklace flashing against her dead-white skin.
She was talking in a soft, languid voice, sometimes witty, often suggestive, but never at a loss for a subject, as women do talk who are paid well to interest and amuse their masters.
Le Breton did not look either particularly interested or amused. In fact, he looked bored and indifferent, answering her in monosyllables, as if her perpetual chatter interrupted some pleasant reverie of his own.
As he sat, intent on his own thoughts, one of the servants came to his side. Stooping, he said in a deferential voice in Arabic:
"There is the English lady your Highness deigned to breakfast with in the orange groves of Telde."
Le Breton started. He glanced round, his gaze following the Arab's to one of the wide French windows opening on the lawn.
Standing there, light and slight, a graceful, golden reed, was the girl who was now all the world to him.
But Pansy was not looking in his direction, but at Lucille, as if she could not believe what she saw before her.
The sight brought Le Breton quickly to his feet.
"Pansy!" he exclaimed.
His voice and action made Lucille glance towards the window.
She looked at the girl standing there; then she smiled lazily, a trifle maliciously.
Lucille saw before her the rival she had suspected, who had changed Le Breton's lukewarm liking into cutting indifference. With the perception of her kind she realised that Pansy was something quite different from herself and the women Le Breton usually amused himself with. That slim girl with her wide, purple eyes and vivid, flower-like face was no courtesan, no toy; but a woman with a spirit and a soul that could hold and draw a man, apart from her physical attractions; the sort of woman, in fact, that a man like Raoul Le Breton might be tempted to marry.
At sound of his voice Pansy came into the room, her eyes blazing, her breast heaving, her two hands clutching the long amber chain in an effort to keep herself calm and collected.
So it was true! He was living here with that red-haired creature, this man who had come to her vowing she was the only woman he had ever loved! This man whom she had kissed and whom she had allowed to kiss and fondle her!
Pansy looked at Lucille in her white satin and emeralds—Lucille, big and voluptuous, her profession written on her face.
"Who is that woman?" she demanded.
Lucille did not wait for Le Breton to answer.
One glance at him told her everything. On his face were concern, love, and annoyance; the look that comes to a man's face when the girl he would make his wife and the woman who is his mistress by some unfortunate circumstance chance to meet.
Her star, never particularly bright, had waned and set within a week, all thanks to this slim girl in the yellow dress. Any day she, Lucille, might be shipped back to France, with only the emerald necklace to soothe her sore heart.
As things were she could lose nothing, and she might have the pleasure of parting Le Breton from the woman he really loved. The girl looked one who would countenance no backslidings.
Before he could say anything she said in a languid voice:
"My name is Lucille Lemesurier. I'm an actress. At Mr. Le Breton's invitation I came here with him from Paris, to stay until he tires of me or I of him.Comme vous voulez," she finished, with a shrug.
For a moment Pansy just stared at the truth confronting her: the truth, lazy, languid, and smiling, in white satin and emeralds.
There was a little noise, hard and sharp, like a shower of frozen tears rattling down on the table. The hands clinging to the string of amber beads clung just a thought too hard, for the necklace snapped suddenly. The beads poured down like tears—the tears Pansy herself was past shedding. The knowledge of Le Breton's treachery and deceit had turned her into ice.
She cast one look at him of utter contempt and scorn.
Then, silently as she had come, she turned and went from the room.
She did not get far, however, before Le Breton was at her side.
Ignoring him, she hurried across the moonlit lawn, her only desire to escape from his presence.
"Pansy——" he began.
Like a whirlwind she turned on him. With a hand that shook with rage, she pointed to the open dining-room window.
"Go! Go back to that red-haired creature," she said in a voice that trembled with anger. "I never want to see or speak to you again. Never!"
At her words Le Breton's hands clenched and his swarthy face went white.
"Do you think I'm going to be dismissed in this manner?" he asked in a strangled voice.
Without a further word Pansy would have hurried on; but, before she knew what was happening, he had taken her into his arms.
"How dare you touch me! How dare you touch me!" she gasped, struggling furiously after freedom, amazed at his audacity.
But he laughed and, crushing her against him, kissed her fiercely.
Le Breton knew his case was hopeless. No amount of persuasion would bring the girl back to his arms. He was no longer a polished man of the world, but the Sultan of El-Ammeh, a barbaric ruler who knew no law save his own desire.
Pansy was too furious to be afraid. With all her might she struggled to get away from his arms and the deluge of hot, passionate kisses, not because of the danger oozing from the man, but because she knew he had held and kissed that other woman.
But all her struggles were in vain. She was helpless against his strength; crushed within his arms; almost breathless under the force and passion of the kisses she could not escape from.
"If you go on behaving in this brutal manner I shall scream," she panted presently.
Her words sobered him.
The road lay not twenty yards away, and her screams might bring a dozen people to her rescue. He remembered that he was in Grand Canary, where evenhehad to conform with rules, not in El-Ammeh, where none would dare question his doings.
He let Pansy out of his arms.
"Look what a state you've put me in!" she flashed the moment she was free, as she endeavoured to tidy her torn and crumpled dress with hands that shook with anger. "You're a brute. A savage. I hate you!" she finished.
But Le Breton just stood and laughed.
To-night she might go; but to-morrow——!
To-morrow she would be on his yacht, where she might scream to her heart's content without a soul coming to her rescue.
His laughter, fierce and fond, followed Pansy from the garden.
The hotel patio was full of people just out from dinner. In the midst of a crowd of acquaintances Captain Cameron stood, laughing and talking with those around him.
All at once a voice at his elbow said tensely:
"Bob, I want to speak to you alone for a moment."
He turned quickly. Then he stood surveying the speaker with surprise, for the girl beside him looked very different from the Pansy he knew. There was an almost tortured air about her. Her face was set and white; there were deep, dark rings under eyes that were limpid pools of pain.
"Hello, old pal, what has happened?" he asked, with concern.
Pansy did not stop to answer him. With impatient hands she led him away from the crowd of listening, staring people into a quiet corner.
"I'm going back to England at once. To-night! Help me to get off, please," she said.
With blank amazement Cameron stared at her.
"What's got hold of you now?" he managed to ask.
"I'm going home," she said, "at once."
"But I thought you were staying here until Sir George came out?"
"Well, I've changed my mind," she snapped. "And I'm going back, even if you aren't."
All Pansy wanted now was to get to the one other man she loved, her father. To get to him as quickly as possible with her bruised and wounded heart.
"Of course I'll come with you, old girl," Cameron said, a trifle helplessly. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you in the lurch. But you have a way of springing surprises on people. I'll send along and tell the captain to get steam up."
"Yes, do, Bob, please," she said gratefully. "And ask Miss Grainger to see about the packing. And find out where Jenkins is, and send him along to the stables. I—I'm past doing anything."
Cameron scanned the girl quickly, suddenly aware that something more than a whim was at the bottom of her hurried departure.
"What is it, Pansy?" he asked.
"Nothing," she answered bravely. "But I get moods when I just feel I must see my old dad."
She turned away quickly to avoid any further questions, leaving Cameron staring at her receding back.
The next morning Le Breton set about his scheme for trapping Pansy.
The task appeared easy. He would get one of his men to note when she left the hotel and mark which route she took. There were not many roads in the place, and it would not be difficult to guess where she was going. He and his men would follow, and waylay and capture her at some lonely spot. They would take her across the island to a little port on the far side, where his yacht would be waiting. Once he had her safely on board, he would start for Africa.
As he sat at breakfast, savage and brooding, craving for the girl who had flouted him, one of his servants entered.
"Well?" he asked, glaring at the man.
The Arab made a deep obeisance.
"Your Highness, the English lady has gone."
"Gone!" the Sultan repeated in an incredulous tone. "Gone! Where?"
"She left the island last night, in her yacht, about two hours after she was here."
Like one thunderstruck, Le Breton stared at the Arab. This unexpected move of Pansy's had upset his calculations altogether.
Without a word he rose from the table. There and then he went over to the hotel to see the manager, his only idea to find out where the girl had gone. He could not believe that she had escaped him; yet the mere thought that she might have done so filled him with a seething passion.
By the time he reached the hotel he had recovered himself in some degree, sufficiently to inquire in a normal tone for the manager.
He was taken to the latter's office.
"You had an English lady staying here, a Miss Langham," Le Breton said the moment he was ushered in. "I wanted to see her rather particularly, but I hear she has left. Can you tell me where she's gone?"
On seeing who the visitor was, the manager was anxious to give all possible assistance, but he knew little more about Pansy than Le Breton did.
"She left rather hurriedly," he said; "and, as far as I could gather, she was going back to England."
"Do you know her address there?" Le Breton asked.
"No, I don't," the manager said regretfully. "Miss Langham did not talk much about herself."
This was all Le Breton was able to learn. But he knew one thing—that the girl his fierce heart hungered for had escaped him.
That morning his black horse had a hard time, for Le Breton rode like a madman in a vain endeavour to get away from the whirl of wild love and thwarted hopes that raged within him—the Sultan Casim Ammeh for the first time deprived of the woman he wanted; wanted as he had never wanted any other.
He went to the rose-wreathed summer-house where Pansy had been pleased to linger with him; to the orange groves at Telde where they had breakfasted together. Night found him in the hotel gardens, near the fountain where they had met and plighted their troth.
His hands clenched at the thought of all she had promised there. Phantom-like, she haunted him. Her ghost was in his arms, kissing and teasing him, a recollection that was torture. The one real love of his life had proved but Dead Sea fruit.
He would have given his kingdom, all his riches, to have Pansy back in his arms as he had had her that night, unresisting, watching him with eyes full of love, wanting him as much as he had wanted her. The one woman who had ever scorned him!