A Son of the Sahara Part 22

"I'm no temptation. It's my money. He likes women with red hair."

Le Breton scanned Pansy more closely.

He had noticed she was dressed in white, but with her unexpectedly in his arms he had not troubled to look further.

She was wearing a dress of chiffon, light as air, vague as moonlight, that clung about her like a mist, caught up here and there with tiny diamond buckles which made the garment look as if studded with dewdrops. And on a thin platinum chain about her neck was hung one great sparkling drop of light.

Le Breton knew real gems when he saw them, and that one diamond alone was worth a fortune.

He bent his proud head, until his lips just touched the fluff of golden curls.

"Who are you really, Pansy?" he asked softly.

"You despise and dislike me already, so why should I get further into your black books?"

"I, despise and dislike you?"

"You said you disliked all the English."

"I'm quite willing to make an exception in your favour."

"When you learn the truth you'll 'detest' me."

"Never!" he said emphatically.

"Well then, I'm 'that woman of the name of Langham.'"

"You!" he exclaimed.

Then he laughed.

"Pansy, you're a little creature of rare surprises."

The surprise held him silent for some moments. Or else it was sufficient to have the girl there, unresisting against his heart.

Up till now Pansy had avoided all male arms as far as it was possible for a girl who was beautiful, wealthy and light-hearted. Whenever caught she had wriggled out indignantly.

From the arm that held her now she made no attempt to escape. A fearsome fascination lay within its embrace. It seemed that he would have but to close the hand that rested on her bosom, and her heart would be in his grip, s.n.a.t.c.hed out of her keeping before she knew it.

Suddenly it dawned on Pansy that if she stayed there much longer she would want to stay for ever.

One by one she lifted the sinewy, brown fingers from her dress, holding them in one hand as she went about her task with the other.

With a slight smile Le Breton watched her. But when the last of his fingers was removed, she was still a prisoner, held secure within his arm.

Then Pansy descended to strategy.

"Mr. Le Breton, will you lend me your handkerchief?" she asked in a mild tone.

"Why do you want it?" the voice of the master demanded.

"To dip it in the fountain there and wash my arm. It feels all horrid and nasty and clammy where that odious man touched it," she said meekly.

The sentiment was one Le Breton approved of and sympathised with.

Letting her go, he drew out his handkerchief.

Taking it, Pansy turned towards the fountain. He followed and stood beside her, obviously waiting until her task was finished before carrying the situation further.

As Pansy scrubbed away at her arm, she kept a rather nervous eye on him.

When the task was completed, she screwed the handkerchief up into a loose, wet ball. But she did not throw it on the ground as Le Breton expected and was waiting for her to do, before taking her into his arms again.

Instead, she threw it into his face.

It took him by surprise; an indignity that had not come his way hitherto. People were not in the habit of throwing wet handkerchiefs with stinging force into the face of the Sultan Casim Ammeh.

The force and wetness temporarily blinded him. He was perhaps ten seconds in recovering his sight and his dignity.

Then he looked for the girl.

She was running as fast as she could away from him, down a misty, moonlit path, in her chiffon and diamonds looking a s.h.i.+mmer of moonlight and sparkling dew herself.

Pansy's only desire just then was to get out of the white, romantic moonlit world with its scents and sighs and seductive murmurs, back to one of electric light and ragtime, where there was no Raoul Le Breton looking at her gravely, with glowing eyes.

He had suddenly become a startling menace to her cherished liberty, this big, dark man with his masterful air and high-handed ways.

Whatever he said she would have to listen to. Perhaps even--agree with!

CHAPTER XII

Le Breton did not run after the girl. He watched her go, with a feeling that he could afford to bide his time. But at six o'clock the next morning he was round at the hotel waiting for Pansy to come for her usual ride.

However, there was no sign of her either that morning or the following.

In fact, it was not until the afternoon of the second day that he saw anything of her.

A tennis tournament was taking place at the hotel. Le Breton went feeling sure Pansy would be there, and incidentally, to find out what Captain Cameron, the local tennis champion, was like.

He saw a fresh-faced youngster, decidedly better-looking than the rest of the men there, but too much like the girl herself ever to be able to hold her.

Then he looked for Pansy.

She was seated with a group of acquaintances, awaiting her turn on the courts.

On seeing Le Breton, she vouchsafed him a smile and a nod, but no further attention.