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"There, loiterer! Go call a carriage. The Prince is sleepy--dear sheep!"
This last was a tender apostrophe to her snoring friend. Ambroise helped
them into a fiacre. When it drove away it was past two o'clock; the
house had to be closed. He walked slowly home to his little chamber on
the Rue Puteaux, just off the Batignolles. But he could not sleep until
the street-cleaners began the work of another day.... The Woman from
Morocco was the scarlet colour of his troubled dreams....
* * * * *
August had almost spent itself, and Aholibah remained in the arid and
flavourless town. Her intimate friends had weeks earlier gone to
Trouville, to Dinard, to Ostende, to Hombourg, even as far as Brighton;
but she lingered, seemingly from perversity. She came regularly to the
cafe about eleven, always in company with her Prince, and was untiringly
served by Ambroise. He was rewarded for his fidelity with many valuable
tips and latterly with gifts--for on being questioned he was forced to
admit that gratuities had to be shared with the other waiters.


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