Pandora's Box
chair Aravang had adjusted. "I meant Yakka Arik, not myself, Miss Rand."
"But you are wonderfully clean. I'm growing envious."
"The explanation is simple. A good native barber may be had in Yakka Arik—thanks to the Sayak rule of half-shaven mustaches and hair, following the Mohammedan custom. I had my own kit."
"A mirror! Have you a mirror, Mr. Donovan?" She held her breath.
"Oh, yes. And the rug and chair emerged from my box."
But Edith had sprung to her feet. "I must have the mirror!"
Donovan held up a protesting hand. His keen glance dwelt briefly on her face, flushed by the sun. Edith had been busy with her new-found sewing materials and had fashioned a light blue smock out of Aravang's offerings of veils—also a loose girdle of the same color and a light scarf.
These served to use in place of her outworn shirtwaist. Her natural taste in dress made them becoming. The girl was a splendid picture, her fine hair hanging loose to her slender shoulders and her eyes alight with good humor.
"Please!" Donovan said gravely. "Some women may need a mirror, but you" He fell silent. "You are"
His voice sank, yet Edith's quick ears—and it must be confessed that she was listening acutely—caught the word "matchless." It was her turn to pause. Into the eyes of the man there had sprung a glow that was not a reflection of the sunlight.
"Your box is a regular treasure chest," Edith
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