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Is it not enough that you are my beloved? You know there is none other but you. Is it not enough, Miralda?
It is not enough. I will be queen.
Tchah! . . . Miralda, I know you are a wonderful woman, the most wonderful in the East; how you ever came to be in the West I don’t know, and a train of all places; but, Miralda, you must not have petty whims, they don’t become you.
Is it a petty whim to wish to be a queen?
Yes, when it is only the name you want. You are a queen. You have all you wish for. Are you not my beloved? And have I not power here over all men? Could I not close the pass?
I want to be queen.
Oh-h! I will leave you. I have more to do than to sit and hear your whims. When I come back you will have some other whim. Miralda, you have too many whims.
[He rises.]
Will you be back soon?
No.
When will you come back, John?
[She is reclining, looking fair, fanning slightly.]
In half an hour.
In half an hour?
Yes.
[Exit.]
Half an hour.
[Her fan is laid down. She clutches it with sudden resolve. She goes to the wall, fanning herself slowly. She leans against it. She fans herself now with obvious deliberation. Three times the great fan goes pat against the window, and then again separately three times; and then she puts it against the window once with a smile of ecstasy. She has signalled. She returns to the cushions and reclines with beautiful care, fanning herself softly.
Enter the Vizier, Hafiz el Alcolahn]
Lady! You bade me come.
Did I, Hafiz?
Lady, your fan.
Ah, I was fanning myself.
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