The Kabyle saw these glances, but,
completely satisfied with himself, evidently attributed them to envy.
Stephen turned towards Victoria, of whom he had lost sight for a moment.
He wished to offer the Kabyle boy's services, but already she had
accepted those of a very old Arab who looked thin and ostentatiously
pathetic. It was too late now. He saw by her face that she would refuse
help, rather than hurt the man's feelings. But she had told him the name
of the hotel where she had telegraphed to engage a room, and Stephen
meant at the instant of greeting his host, to ask if it were suitable
for a young girl travelling alone.
He caught sight of Caird, looking up and waiting for him, before he was
able to land. It was the face he remembered; boyish, with beautiful
bright eyes, a wide forehead, and curly light hair. The expression was
more mature, but the same quaintly angelic look was there, which had
earned for Nevill the nickname of "Choir Boy" and "Wings."
"Hullo, Legs!" called out Caird, waving his Panama.
"Hullo, Wings!" shouted Stephen, and was suddenly tremendously glad to
see the friend he had thought of seldom during the last eight or nine
years. In another moment he was introducing Nevill to Miss Ray and
hastily asking questions concerning her hotel, while a fantastic crowd
surged round all three. Brown, skurrying men in torn bagging, the
muscles of whose bare, hairless legs seemed carved in dark oak; shining
black men whose faces were ebony under the ivory white of their turbans;
pale, patient Kabyles of the plains bent under great sacks of flour
which drained through ill-sewn seams and floated on the air in white
smoke, making every one sneeze as the crowd swarmed past.
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