"Constance," he said, tenderly, and repeated the name carefully, several times: "Constance, Constance, Constance," as if to engrave it into his memory.
Her face betrayed the sadness of her heart as she scanned his features. He kept her hand in his and gazed fixedly into her eyes as the moon shone upon her upturned face. Then the girl kissed him on the mouth, in view of Fenworth and her father and the crew.
"Good-bye, Zadd, my sheik," she said, and her lips trembled.
Ashamed to let him see the moisture in her eyes, she turned away and strode to the water's edge, where she awaited passage to the yacht.
Zadd mounted the snow-white stallion that had brought her from the oasis. Leading his own coal-black mare, he loped back into the desert. Constance, looking from the deck of the yacht a few minutes later, saw silhouetted against the horizon two horses, and on one of them was a rider. They lingered for a little, and she tried to call to him.
"Good-bye, Zadd," she cried. "Goodbye!"
The silhouettes disappeared beyond the ridge, and Constance laid her head on Fenworth's shoulder and wept.
Flower Profiles
By Hung Long Tom
How many times through countless hours
Have I heard Li Kan describing wondrous profiles
Of the girls he paints on vases and fans
And white bits of old ivory.
The profile of a golden girl
Against a soft blue screen is finer far
Than any cameo yet carved,
Loveliest of pictures lying 'neath the sun.
Now through my garden
I walk and dream and smile.
Has one not noticed the profile of a flower,
The lovely clear Line of a tea-rose
Laughing in the sun,
Or of a pale pink peony
Lush with morning dew?
Is there a music more exquisite
Than the perfume of a rose?
Or a sweeter profile
Than a simple garden flower?
