seats in an amphitheatre； others indented； crenellated like
battlements； undulating in beastlike shapes。 The distant panorama of
desert was unbroken by any visible oasis and powerfully suggested
Eternity to Domini。
〃When I go out into the desert for my long journey I shall go by this
road；〃 she said to Androvsky。
〃You are going on a journey？〃 he said； looking at her as if startled。
〃Some day。〃
〃All alone？〃
〃I suppose I must take a caravan； two or three Arabs； some horses； a
tent or two。 It's easy to manage。 Batouch will arrange it for me。〃
Androvsky still looked startled； and half angry； she thought。
They had pulled up their horses among the sand dunes。 It was near
sunset； and the breath of evening was in the sir； making its coolness
even more ethereal； more thinly pure than in the daytime。 The
atmosphere was so clear that when they glanced back they could see the
flag fluttering upon the white of the great hotel of Beni…Mora； many
kilometres away among the palms； so still that they could hear the
bark of a Kabyle off near a nomad's tent pitched in the green land by
the water…springs of old Beni…Mora。 When they looked in front of them
they seemed to see thousands of leagues of flatness； stretching on and
on till the pale yellowish brown of it grew darker； merged into a
strange blueness； like the blue of a hot mist above a southern lake；
then into violet； then intothe thing they could not see； the
summoning thing whose voice Domini's imagination heard； like a remote
and thrilling echo； whenever she was in the desert。
〃I did not know you were going on a journey； Madame；〃 Androvsky said。
〃Don't you remember？〃 she rejoined laughingly； 〃that I told you on the
tower I thought peace must dwell out there。 Well； some day I shall set
out to find it。〃
〃That seems a long time ago； Madame；〃 he muttered。
Sometimes； when speaking to her； he dropped his voice till she could
scarcely hear him； and sounded like a man communing with himself。
A red light from the sinking sun fell upon the dunes。 As they rode
back over them their horses seemed to be wading through a silent sea
of blood。 The sky in the west looked like an enormous conflagration；
in which tortured things were struggling and lifting twisted arms。
Domini's acquaintance with Androvsky had not progressed as easily and
pleasantly as her intercourse with Count Anteoni。 She recognised that
he was what is called a 〃difficult man。〃 Now and then； as if under the
prompting influence of some secret and violent emotion； he spoke with
apparent naturalness； spoke perhaps out of his heart。 Each time he did
so she noticed that there was something of either doubt or amazement
in what he said。 She gathered that he was slow to rely； quick to
mistrust。 She gathered； too； that very many things surprised him； and
felt sure that he hid nearly all of them from her； and wouldhad not
his own will sometimes betrayed himhave hidden all。 His reserve was
as intense as everything about him。 There was a fierceness in it that
revealed its existence。 He always conveyed to her a feeling of
strength； physical and mental。 Yet he always conveyed； too； a feeling
of uneasiness。 To a woman of Domini's temperament uneasiness usually
implies a public or secret weakness。 In Androvsky's she seemed to be
aware of passion； as if it were one to dash obstacles aside； to break
through doors of iron； to rush out into the open。 And thenwhat then？
To tremble at the world before him？ At what he had done？ She did not
know。 But she did know that even in his uneasiness there seemed to be
fibre； muscle； sinew； nerveall which goes to make strength；
swiftness。
Speech was singularly difficult to him。 Silence seemed to be natural；
not irksome。 After a few words he fell into it and remained in it。 And
he was less self…conscious in silence than in speech。 He seemed； she
fancied； to feel himself safer； more a man when he was not speaking。
To him the use of words was surely like a yielding。
He had a peculiar faculty of making his presence felt when he was
silent； as if directly he ceased from speaking the flame in him was
fanned and leaped up at the outside world beyond its bars。
She did not know whether he was a gentleman or not。
If anyone had asked her； before she came to Beni…Mora； whether it
would be possible for her to take four solitary rides with a man； to
meet himif only for a few minutesevery day of ten days； to sit
opposite to him； and not far from him； at meals during the same space
of time； and to be unable to say to herself whether he was or was not
a gentleman by birth and educationfeeling set asideshe would have
answered without hesitation that it would be utterly impossible。 Yet
so it was。 She could not decide。 She could not place him。 She could
not imagine what his parentage； what his youth； his manhood had been。
She could not fancy him in any environmentsave that golden light；
that blue radiance； in which she had first consciously and fully met
him face to face。 She could not hear him in converse with any set of
men or women； or invent； in her mind； what he might be likely to say
to them。 She could not conceive him bound by any ties of home； or
family； mother； sister； wife； child。 When she looked at him； thought
about him； he presented himself to her alone； like a thing in the air。
Yet he was more male than other men； breathed humanityof some kind
as fire breathes heat。
The child there was in him almost confused her； made her wonder
whether long contact with the world had tarnished her own original
simplicity。 But she only saw the child in him now and then； and she
fancied that it； too； he was anxious to conceal。
This man had certainly a power to rouse feeling in others。 She knew it
by her own experience。 By turns he had made her feel motherly；
protecting； curious； constrained； passionate； energetic； timidyes；
almost timid and shy。 No other human being had ever； even at moments；
thus got the better of her natural audacity； lack of self…
consciousness； and inherent； almost boyish； boldness。 Nor was she
aware what it was in him which sometimes made her uncertain of
herself。
She wondered。 But he often woke up wonder in her。
Despite their rides； their moments of intercourse in the hotel； on the
verandah； she scarcely felt more intimate with him than she had at
first。 Sometimes indeed she thought that she felt less so； that the
moment when the train ran out of the tunnel into the blue country was
the moment in which they had been nearest to each other since they
trod the verges of each other's lives。
She had never definitely said to herself： 〃Do I like him or dislike
him？〃
Now； as she sat with Count Anteoni watching the noon； the half…drowsy；
half…imaginative expression had gone out of her face。 She looked
rather rigid； rather formidable。
Androvsky and Count Anteoni had never met。 The Count had seen
Androvsky in the distance from his garden more than once； but
Androvsky had not seen him。 The meeting that was about to take place
was due to Domini。 She had spoken to Androvsky on several occasions of
the romantic beauty of this desert garden。
〃It is like a garden of the /Arabian Nights/；〃 she had said。
He did not look enlightened； and she was moved to ask him abruptly
whether he had ever read the famous book。 He had not。 A doubt came to
her whether he had ever even heard of it。 She mentioned the fact of
Count Anteoni's having made the garden； and spoke of him； sketching
lightly his whimsicality； his affection for the Arabs； his love of
solitude； and of African life。 She also mentioned that he was by birth
a Roman。
〃But scarcely of the black world I should imagine；〃 she added。
Androvsky said nothing。
〃You should go and see the garden；〃 she continued。 〃Count Anteoni
allows visitors to explore it。〃
〃I am sure it must be very beautiful； Madame；〃 he replied； rather
coldly； she thought。
He did not say that he would go。
As the garden won upon her； as its enchanted mystery； the airy wonder
of its shadowy places； the glory of its trembling golden vistas； the
restfulness of its green defiles； the strange； almost unearthly peace
that reigned within it embalmed her spirit； as she learned not only to
marvel at it； to be entranced by it； but to feel at home in it and
love it； she was conscious of a persistent desire that Androvsky
should know it too。
Perhaps his dogged determination about the riding had touched her more
than she was aware。 She often saw before her the bent figure； that
looked tired； riding alone into the luminous grey； starting thus early
that his act； humble and determined； might not be known by her。 He did
not know that she had seen him； not only on that morning； but on many
subsequent mornings； setting forth to study the new art in the
solitude of the still hours。 But the fact that she had seen； had
watched till horse and rider vanished beyond the palms； had understood
why； perhaps moved her to this permanent wish that he could share her
pleasure in the garden； know it as she did。
She did not argue with herself about the matter。 She only knew that
she wished； that presently she meant Androvsky to pass through the
white gate and be