Her voice sounded careless, but her eyes were watching him closely.

“Bella Donna!  But any beautiful woman may be that.”

“Did you ever hear of Mrs. Chepstow?”

“No.”

He stared at her, then added: 

“Who is it.  Does she come to Cairo in the winter?”

She felt certain he had not heard, and was not sure that she was glad.  Her sort of fame might perhaps have attracted him.  She wondered and longed to know.  She longed to ask him many questions about his thoughts of women.  But of course he would not tell her the truth.  And men hate to be questioned by women.

“Does she come to Cairo?” he repeated.

“She was there once.”

“You are Bella Donna,” he said.

“You had to say that.”

“Yes, but it is true.  You are Bella Donna, but you are not donna onesta.”

She did not resent the remark, which was made with an almost naive gravity and directness.  She was quite sure that Baroudi would never appreciate a woman because she was honest.  Again she longed to hint at her notoriety, at the evil reputation she had acquired, which yet was a sort of fame.

“In—­in Europe they often call me Bella Donna,” she said.

“In Europe?”

“In England—­London.”

“They are right.  I shall call you Bella Donna here, beside the Nile.”

He said it negligently, but something in her rejoiced.  Nevertheless, she said, she could not help saying: 

“And the full moon?”

“What about her?”

“Is she Bella Donna?”

He half closed his eyes and looked down.

“I don’t ask you if she is donna onesta.”

He replied:  “She is sixteen, and she is a dancing-girl.”

“I understand,” she said, with an effort.

She shut her lips tightly and was silent, thinking of Nigel’s return, of her departure with him to the Fayyum, while this man, on his luxurious floating home, went on towards the south.  She had resolved to live for the day.  But when does any jealous woman live for the day?  Jealousy hurls itself into the past and into the future, demanding of the one what was and of the other what will be.  And—­the canvas of a tent would enfold her, would make her prison walls!  Why, why had she tied herself?  A month ago, and she was utterly free.  She could have gone to the south on the Loulia.  Her whole body tingled, revolting against the yoke with which her will had burdened it.  But when she spoke again her voice was lazy and calm?

“I suppose you won’t stay on the Nile for ever?”

Again her fingers closed mechanically on one of the boxes.

“But no!  I shall have to go back to Assiut, and then to Cairo and Alexandria, the Delta, too.”

“And the Fayyum?  Haven’t you property there?  Isn’t it one of the richest districts in Egypt?”

He looked at her and smiled, slightly pouting his thick lips.