his eager preparations for her reception and housing—­his ardent preparations for the taking of her “right down to Nature,” as he had once phrased it to her.  She touched her whitened cheek with her carefully manicured fingers, and she wondered, not without irony, at the strange chances of human life.  What imp had taken her by the hand to lead her to a tent in the Fayyum, in which she would dwell with a man full of an almost sacred moral enthusiasm?  She would surely be more at home lying on embroideries and heaped-up cushions, with her nostrils full of a faint but heavy perfume of the East, and her ears of the murmur of dancing waters, and her mind, or spirit, or soul, or whatever it was, in contact with another “whatever it was,” unlit, unheated, by fires that might possibly scorch her, but that could never purify her.

What a marvellous golden day it was!  This morning she felt the beneficent influence of the exquisite climate in a much more intimate way than she had ever felt it before.  Why was that?  Because of Nigel’s absence, or because of some other reason?  Although she asked herself the question, she did not seek for an answer; the weather was subtly showering into her an exquisite indifference—­the golden peace of “never mind!” In the Eastern house of Baroudi, as she squeezed the silken cushions with her fingers, something within her had said, “I must squeeze dry of their golden juices every one of the fleeting years.”  In this day there were some drops of the golden juices—­some drops that she must squeeze out, that her thirsty lips must drink.  For the years were fleeting away, and then there would come the black, eternal nothingness.  She must turn all her attention towards the joys that might still be hers in the short time that was left her for joy—­the short time, for she was a woman, and over forty.

A tent in the Fayyum with Nigel!  Nobody else but Nigel!  Days and days in complete isolation with Nigel!  With the man who had “let her in”!  And life, not stealing but clamorously rushing away from her!

She thought of this, she faced it; the soul of her condemned it as a fate almost ludicrously unsuited to her.  And yet she was undisturbed in the depths of her, although, perhaps, the surface was ruffled.  For the weather would not be gainsaid, the climate would have its way; the blue, and the gold, and the warmth, combining with the knowledge of freedom, could not be conquered by any thought that was black, or by any fear.  It seemed to her for a moment as if she were almost struggling to be angry, to be unhappy, and as if the struggle were vain.

She was quite free in this world of gold.  What was she going to do with her freedom?

In the golden stillness of the garden she heard the faint rustle of a robe, and she looked round and saw Ibrahim coming slowly towards her, smiling, with his curly head drooping a little to the left side.  Behind both his ears there were roses, and he held a rose in his hand with an unlighted cigarette.