Hector stepped across the threshold, while his guide salaamed and disappeared.
Curled upon a couch, he saw a slim young girl, dressed native style in a sari of pale, rose-colored silk, shot with orange and violet and bordered with tiny seed pearls. Her face was small and round and exquisitely chiseled. Her hair was parted in the middle and of a glossy, bluish black, mingled with flowers and jewels.
She rose at Hector's approach, smiled, and walked up to him. It was evident that she expected the Englishman to speak; for an eager light was in her immense, black eyes; her narrow hands fluttered like butterflies; her lips were half open.
Hector coughed. He did not know what to say, did not know what to make of the whole situation. He had expected to find some wealthy native merchant who needed a young Englishman for his business; perhaps an elderly Brahmin who wanted a tutor for his son; perhaps some semi-independent Indian princeling who wished to avail himself of his military training.
But—to be ushered, in the middle of the night, into the presence of a young girl, a young girl of the Orient, a princess?
And to find her alone, and unveiled?
Why—it was incredible; and, momentarily, a sordid, unworthy thought flashed through his mind, to be quickly scotched as he looked at her friendly open face.
But he was tongue-tied, and then, quite suddenly, she threw her arms about his neck, drew his head down, and kissed him full on the lips.
