36 The Diary of a Drug Fiend
“Look here, Mr. Lamus,” I said, speaking very
quickly, “I can drive any kind of car. Let me take
Miss Hallaj home.”
The Arab girl was on her feet behind me.
“Yes, yes,’ she said, in a faint, yet excited voice.
“That will be much the best thing. Thanks awfully.”
They were the first words she had spoken.
“Yes, yes,” chimed in Lou. “I want to drive in
the moonlight.”
The little group was huddled in the open doorway.
On one side the dark crimson tides of electricity;
on the other, the stainless splendour of our satellite.
“OQ Thou frail bluebell of moonlight, that art
lost in the gardens of the stars! I adore Thee,
Evoe! I adore Thee, I A O!”
The scene progressed with the vivid rapidity of a
dream. We were in the garage—out of it—into the
streets—at the Egyptian girl’s hotel—and then—