She lifted her head at last and looked around her. The room was a
curious mixture of Oriental luxury and European comfort. The lavish
sumptuousness of the furnishings suggested subtly an unrestrained
indulgence, the whole atmosphere was voluptuous, and Diana shrank from
the impression it conveyed without exactly understanding the reason.
There was nothing that jarred artistically, the rich hangings all
harmonised, there were no glaring incongruities such as she had seen in
native palaces in India. And everything on which her eyes rested drove
home relentlessly the hideous fact of her position. His things were
everywhere. On a low, brass-topped table by the bed was the half-smoked
cigarette he had had between his lips when he came to her. The pillow
beside her still bore the impress of his head. She looked at it with a
growing horror in her eyes until an uncontrollable shuddering seized
her and she cowered down, smothering the cry that burst from her in the
soft pillows and dragging the silken coverings up around her as if
their thin shelter were a protection. She lived again through every
moment of the past night until thought was unendurable, until she felt
that she would go mad, until at last, worn out, she fell asleep.

It was midday when she awoke again. This time she was not alone. A
young Arab girl was sitting on the rug beside her looking at her with
soft brown eyes of absorbed interest As Diana sat up she rose to her
feet, salaaming, with a timid smile.