It was a commanding little note—in the sense that it showed neither invitation nor interest, but allowed me to join her if I could. Business in Damascus I could always make, and I was eager to entertain her in my own world and to repay her kindness. I suspected that she might be less grave a creature in Damascus than at Kasr-el-Sittat. That is, perhaps, a preposterous understatement of my hopes. Or didn’t I know that I loved her? Certainly she seemed to me so unattainable that I wasn’t admitting it. I had enough experience to be cautious in handing over my happiness. I reasoned myself into believing that my longing for her was mere desire. She was in the lounge of the hotel when I arrived, dressed for the summer heat of the Arab capital in unrelieved white silk, for which her small head, and the delicious, nervous sharpness of shoulder, hip and breast were sufficient ornament. In all her clothes, especially at Kasr-el-Sittat, there was a slight suggestion of uniform; but if this were uniform, it was that of a Nefertiti contemptuously covering her beauty for a visit to the Chief of Staff.
