Neither she nor the doctor had asked me so much as one question about Mr. Jelnik.  As if by tacit understanding that subject was avoided.  And because I hadn’t anything to tell them, I, too, held my peace.

He raised my hand to his lips, dropped into a chair, and bared his forehead to the soft wind.

“How good that feels!” he sighed.  “Fraeulein, may one smoke?” And receiving permission he smoked for a while, comfortably, leaning back with half-closed eyes.

“Achmet salaams to you, hanoum,” he said presently.  “You have won his heart of a true believer.  Even Daoud demands daily news of you.”

“I particularly like The Jinnee.  I should like to have him around me.  And Daoud is highly ornamental.”

“When is The Author coming back?  Or is he coming back?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh, yes.  He will be here for the wedding.  So will Miss Emmeline.”

After a long pause, and with an evident effort: 

“I have been thinking,” he said, “that perhaps it was unfortunate I came between you and The Author.  Perhaps,” he added deliberately, “it would have been better had you let your common sense gain the day.”

I don’t know why, but just at that moment the dear and haunting dream of having been lifted out of deep waters and kissed back to life, cradled in this man’s arms, came to me with peculiar poignancy.  Of a sudden I laughed aloud.

“Oh, I’m just remembering a dream I had, when I was ill,” I told him, in answer to his look of surprise.

“It must have been a very amusing dream,” said he, staring at me thoughtfully.

“Oh, very!  Quite absurd.  But go on.  You were by way of advising me to marry The Author, were you not?”

His hands on the arms of the wicker chair clenched.  He half rose, thought better of it, and sank back.

“I was saying that it might have been better for you,” he said, breathing quickly.  “In all probability you would have accepted him, had I not been here to—­blunder into the affair.”

“He mightn’t have asked me, if you hadn’t been here to blunder into the affair,” said I, composedly.  “Let us drop the subject, please.  I shall never marry The Author.”  It gave me a sense of relief and freedom to hear myself say that.  “I can’t marry The Author.”

He went pale.  “Sophy—­you can’t marry me, either,” he said.

“Of course not.”  I wondered at myself for being so calm and collected.  “I knew that all along.  You care for another woman.  You told me so, you know.”

“I told you no such thing,” he said.  “I told you I cared for a woman, but that there was another man.  Now I’ve just been told she has no idea of accepting the other man.  In spite of all he has to offer, she isn’t going to marry him.”  His face was at once ecstatic and tortured. “Why won’t you marry the other man, Sophy?”

“Because of a dream I dreamed, when I was sick,” I said noncommittally.