“Do you mind if we go home?” she said.

“You have had enough of it already?”

“No, not that; but—­I’m tired,” she said.

As she spoke, skilfully, without appearing to do so, she led him to look towards the little group of the Murchisons and the Haymans; led him to pity her for their observation, and to take that as the cause of her wish to go.  Perhaps it was partly the cause, but not wholly, and not as she made him believe it.

“Ill take you home at once,” Nigel said, tenderly.

When they were outside Baroudi bade them good-bye, and invited them to tea on the Loulia—­so his dahabeeyah was called—­on the following day.

“In the evening I may start for Armant,” he said.  “Will it bore you to come, madame?”

He spoke politely, but rather perfunctorily, and she answered with much the same tone.

“Thanks, I shall be delighted.  Good-night.  The music was delicious.”

His tall figure went away in the dark.

When he had left them there was a silence.  Nigel made a movement as if he were going to take her hand, and draw her arm within the circle of his; but he did not do it, and they walked on side by side by the river, not touching each other, not speaking.  And so, presently, they came to the villa, and to the terrace before the drawing-room.  Then Nigel spoke at last.

“Are—­you are going in at once, Ruby?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I—­will you call from your window presently?”

“Why?”

“When I may come up.  After this morning I must talk to you before we sleep.”

She looked at him, then looked down, resting her white chin on the warm white fur of the ermine.

“I’ll call,” she said.

As she went away he looked after her, and thought how almost strangely tall she looked in the long white coat.  He paced up and down as he waited, listening for the sound of her voice.  After what seemed to him a very long time he heard it at last.

“Nigel!  You can come up now—­if you like.”

He went upstairs at once to her room, and found her sitting in an arm-chair near the window, which led on to the balcony, and which was wide open to the night.  She was in a loose and, to him, a mysterious white and flowing garment, with sleeves that fell away from her arms like wings.  Her hair was coiled low at the back of her neck.

The room was lit by two candles, which burned upon a small writing-table, and by the wan and delicate moonlight that seemed to creep in stealthily, yet obstinately, from the silently-breathing Egypt in whose warm breast they were.  He stood for a moment; then he sat down on a little sofa, not close to her, but near her.

“Ruby,” he said.

“Well, Nigel?”

“This has been the first unhappy day for me since we’ve been married.”

“Unhappy!”

“Yes, because of the cloud between us.”