“She is going to the well,” he said.  The shepherd stopped playing and advanced to meet her.  Boy and girl stood talking for a little while.  He heard laughter and speech... saw her coming towards him.  “She will follow this path to the house, and I shall see her better.”  A little in front of the ilex-trees she stopped to look back upon the shepherd, leaning the amphora upon her naked hip.  The movement lasted only a moment, but how beautiful it was!  On catching sight of Owen, she passed rapidly up the path, meeting Beclere on his way.

“Speaking to him in Arabic,” Owen said, as he continued to admire the beautiful face he had just seen—­a pointed oval, dark eyes, a small, fine nose, red lips, and a skin the colour of yellow ivory.  “Still a child and already a woman, not more than twelve or thirteen at the very most; the sun ripens them quickly.”  This child recalled a dream which he had let drop in Tunis—­a dream that he might go into the desert and find an Arab maiden the colour of yellow ivory, and live with her in an oasis, forgetful....  Only by a woman’s help could he ever forget Evelyn.  The old bitterness welled up bitter as ever.  “And I thought she was beginning to be forgotten.”

In his youth he had wearied of women as a child wearies of toys.  Few women had outlasted the pleasure of a night, all becoming equally insipid and tedious; but since he had met Evelyn he had loved no other.  Why did he love her?  How was it he could not put her out of his mind?  Why couldn’t he accept an Arab girl—­Beclere’s girl?  She was younger and more beautiful.  If she did not belong to Beclere—­ Owen looked up and watched them, and seeing Beclere glance in the direction of the shepherd, he added, “Or to the shepherd.”

The girl went into the house, and Beclere came down to meet his guest, apologising for having left him so long alone....  He talked to him about the beauty of the morning.  The rains were over, or nearly, but very often they began again.

“Cella se pent qu’elle ne soit qu’une courte embellie, mais profitons en,” and they turned to admire the roses.

“A beautiful girl, the one you were just speaking to.”

“Yes... yes; she is the handsomest in the oasis, and there are many handsome girls here.  The Arab race is beautiful, male and female.  Her brother, for instance, the shepherd—­”

“Her brother,” Owen thought.  “Ah!” They stopped to watch the shepherd, a boy of sixteen.  “About two years older than his sister,” Owen remarked, and Beclere acquiesced.  The boy had begun to play his flute again.  He played at first listlessly, then with all his soul, and then with extraordinary passion.  Owen watched the balance of his body and arms, and the movement, extraordinarily voluptuous, of his neck and head.  He played on, his breath coming at times so feebly that there was hardly any sound at all, at other times awaking music loud and imperative; and the two men stood listening,