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‘But if all that is true,’ cried Philip, ‘what is the use of any-
thing? If you take away duty and goodness and beauty why
are we brought into the world?’
‘Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer,’
smiled Cronshaw.
He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened
the door of the cafe, and, with a blast of cold air, entered.
They were Levantines, itinerant vendors of cheap rugs, and
each bore on his arm a bundle. It was Sunday evening, and
the cafe was very full. They passed among the tables, and in
that atmosphere heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke,
rank with humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mys-
tery. They were clad in European, shabby clothes, their thin
great-coats were threadbare, but each wore a tarbouch. Their
faces were gray with cold. One was of middle age, with a
black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a
face deeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. They
passed by Cronshaw and Philip.
‘Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet,’ said Cron-
shaw impressively.
The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel
used to blows. With a sidelong glance at the door and a quick
surreptitious movement he showed a pornographic picture.
‘Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria, or is
it from far Bagdad that you bring your goods, O, my uncle;
and yonder one-eyed youth, do I see in him one of the three
kings of whom Scheherazade told stories to her lord?’
The pedlar’s smile grew more ingratiating, though he un-
derstood no word of what Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer