Had
she been in a city she would have gone to a theatre to witness some
tremendous drama, or to hear some passionate or terrible opera.
Beni-Mora might have been a place of many and strange tragedies, would
be no doubt again, but it offered at this moment little to satisfy her
mood. The dances of the Cafes Maures, the songs of the smokers of
the keef, the long histories of the story-tellers between the lighted
candles--she wanted none of these, and, for a moment, she wished she
were in London, Paris, any great capital that spent itself to suit
the changing moods of men. With a sigh she got up and went out to the
Arcade. Batouch joined her immediately.
"What can I do to-night, Batouch?" she said.
"There are the femmes mauresques," he began.
"No, no."
"Would Madame like to hear the story-teller?"
"No. I should not understand him."
"I can explain to Madame."
"No."
She stepped out into the road.
"There will be a moon to-night, won't there?" she said, looking up at
the starry sky.
"Yes, Madame, later."
"What time will it rise?"
"Between nine and ten."
She stood in the road, thinking.
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