They--and the police would have dearly loved to know exactly who
"they" were--stood clustered in Yasmini's great, deep window that
overlooks her garden--the garden that can not be guessed at from the
street. There was not one of them who could have explained how they
came to assemble all on that side of the room; the movement had
seemed to evolve out of the infinite calculation that everybody takes
for granted, and Moslems particularly, since there seems nothing else
to do about it.
It did not occur to anybody to credit Yasmini with the arrangement,
or with the suddenly aroused interest in smoke against the after-
midnight sky. Yet, when another man entered whose disguise was a joke
to any practised eye--and all in the room were practised--it looked
to the newcomer almost as if his reception had been ready staged.
He was dressed as a Mohammedan gentleman. But his feet, when he
stood still, made nearly a right angle to each other, and his
shoulders had none of the grace that goes with good native breeding;
they were proud enough, but the pride had been drilled in and
cultivated. It sat square. And if a native gentleman had walked
through the streets as this man walked, all the small boys of the
bazaars would have followed him to learn what nation his might be.
Yasmini seemed delighted with him.
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