He was ferociously angry, but not with the girl.
Perhaps with himself, because he was powerless to hide her from others,
and to order her life as he chose. Yet there was a kind of delicious
pain in knowing himself at her mercy, as no Arab man could be at the
mercy of an Arab woman.
The sight of Victoria dancing, had shot new colours into his existence.
He understood her less, and valued her more than before, a thousand
times more, achingly, torturingly more. Since their first meeting on the
boat, he had admired the American girl immensely. Her whiteness, the
golden-red of her hair, the blueness of her eyes had meant perfection
for him. He had wanted her because she was the most beautiful creature
he had seen, because she was a Christian and difficult to win; also
because the contrast between her childishness and brave independence
was piquant. Apart from that contrast, he had not thought much about her
nature. He had looked upon her simply as a beautiful girl, who could not
be bought, but must be won. Now she had become a bewildering houri.
Nothing which life could give him would make up for the loss of her.
There was nothing he would not do to have her, or at least to put her
beyond the reach of others.
If necessary, he would even break his promise to the Agha.
While she danced inside the great tent, outside in the open space round
the fire, the dwellers in the little tents sat with their knees in their
arms watching the dancing of two young Negroes from the Soudan.
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