muddy masculinity, the homeliest woman will find favor in his eyes. And to neither of these women, in whose presence he so unexpectedly found himself within a few hours of landing in England, could the epithet “homely” be applied. Each represented a distinct type of beauty in herself, and Desmond, as he chatted with Barbara, was mentally contrasting the two women. Barbara, tall and slim and very healthy, with her braided brown hair, creamy complexion and gray eyes, was essentially English. She was the typical woman of England, of England of the broad green valleys and rolling downs and snuggling hamlets, of England of the white cliffs gnawed by the restless ocean. The other was equally essentially a woman of the South. Her dark eyes, her upper lip just baring her firm white teeth, spoke of hot Latin or gypsy blood surging in her veins. Hers was the beauty of the East, sensuous, arresting, conjuring up pictures of warm, perfumed nights, the thrumming of guitars, a great yellow moon hanging low behind the palms. 

 “Barbara!” called Nur-el-Din from the dressing table. Mr. Mackwayte had joined her there and was chatting to Strangwise. 

 “You will stay and talk to me while I change n’est-ce pas? Your papa and these gentlemen are going to drink a whiskey-soda with that animal Fletcher... quel homme terrible... and you shall join them presently.” 

 The men went out, leaving Barbara alone with the dancer. Barbara noticed how tired Nur-el-Din was looking. Her pretty, childish ways seemed to have evaporated with her high spirits. Her face was heavy and listless. There were lines round her eyes, and her mouth had a hard, drawn look. 

 “Child,” she said, “give me, please, my peignoir... it is behind the door,... and, I will get this paint off my face!” 

 Barbara fetched the wrapper and sat down beside the dancer. But Nur-el-Din did not move. She seemed to be thinking. Barbara saw the hunted look she had already observed in her that evening creeping over her face again. 

 “It is a hard life; this life of ours, a life of change, ma petite! A great artiste has no country, no home, no fireside! For the past five years I have been roaming about the world! Often I think I will settle down, but the life holds me!” 

 She took up from her dressing-table a little oblong plain silver box. 

 “I want to ask you a favor, ma petite Barbara!” she said. “This little box is a family 

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