Diary of a Drug Fiend

32 The Diary of a Drug Fiend a joke to fill up on coke—or words to that effect, Sir Peter.”’ How in the devil’s name did he know what I had been taking ? “Men who know things have no right to go about the world,’’ something said irritably inside myself. But something else obscurely answered it. “That accounts for what the world has always done —made martyrs of its pioneers.”’ I felt a little ashamed, to tell the truth; but Lamus put me at my ease. He waved his hand towards a huge arm-chair covered with Persian tapestries. He gave me a cigarette and lighted it for me. He poured out a drink of Benedictine into a huge curved glass, and put it on a little table by my side. I disliked his easy hospitality as much as anything else. I had an uncomfortable feeling that I was a puppet in his hands. There was only one other person in the room. On a settee covered with leopard skins lay one of the strangest women I had ever seen. She wore a white evening dress with pale yellow roses, and the same flowers were in her hair. She was a half-blood negress from North Africa. “Miss Fatma Hallaj,’’ said Lamus. I rose and bowed. But the girl took no notice. She seemed in utter oblivion of sublunary matters. Her skin was of that deep, rich night-sky blue which only very vulgar eyes imagine to be black. The face was gross and sensual, but the brows wide and com- manding. There is no type of intellect so essentially aristocratic as the Egyptian when it happens to be of the rare right strain. “Don’t be offended,” said Lamus, in a soft voice, “she includes us all in her sublime disdain.” Lou was sitting on the arm of the couch ; her ivory- white, long crooked fingers groping the dark girl’s hair. Somehow or other I felt nauseated; I was uneasy,