He was not my father,
but he married my mother. I am English." She announced the fact
with a little air of finality.
"Indeed?" said I.
"Yes. Father, mother--both English. He was Vice-Consul. He
died before I was born. Then his friend Hamdi Effendi took my
mother and married her. You see?"
I confessed I did not. "Where does Harry come in?" I inquired.
She looked puzzled. "Come in?" she echoed.
I perceived her knowledge of the English vernacular was limited.
I turned my question differently.
"Oh," she said with more animation. "He used to pass by the
wall, and I talked to him when there was no one looking. He was
so pretty--prettier than you," she paused.
"Is it possible?" I said, ironically.
"Oh, yes," she replied with profound gravity. "He had a
moustache, but he was not so long."
"Well? You talked to Harry. What then?"
In her artless way she told me. A refreshing story, as old as
the crusades, with the accessories of orthodox tradition; a
European disguise, purchased at a slop dealer's by the precious
Harry, a rope, a midnight flitting, a passage taken on board an
English ship; the anchor weighed; and the lovers were free on the
bounding main.
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