“I very glad to come, but about Hamza I dunno.”

He spoke with such apparent sincerity that she was almost deceived, and thought that perhaps some difficulty had really arisen.

“Offer him his own terms,” exclaimed Nigel, “and I’ll bet he’ll be glad to come.”

“I go to see, my gentleman.”

“You shall have him, Ruby, whatever his price,” said Nigel.

Ibrahim, with great difficulty, he said, made a bargain with Hamza, and on the following day the Villa Androud was left in Hassan’s charge, and the Armines went north by the evening express to Cairo, where they were to stay two days and nights, in order that Mrs. Armine might see the Pyramids and the Sphinx.  Nigel had already taken rooms at the Mena House, with a terrace exactly opposite to the Great Pyramid, and giving on to the sand of the desert.

They breakfasted at Shepheard’s, then hired a victoria to drive up Ismail’s road under the meeting lebbek-trees.  Nigel was in glorious spirits.  It seemed to him that morning as if his life were culminating, as if he were destined to a joy of which he was scarcely worthy.  An unworldly man, and never specially fond of society or anxious about its edicts and its opinions, he did not suffer, as many men might have done, under his knowledge of its surprised pity for him, or even contempt.  But in his secret heart he was glad that he was cut out of the succession to his family’s title and the estates.  Had he succeeded to them, his position would at once have become more difficult, his situation with Ruby far more complicated.  As things were, they two were free as the wind.  His soul leaped up to their freedom.

“I feel like a nomad to-day!” he exclaimed.  “By Jove, though! isn’t the wind cold?  It always blows in the winter over these flats.  Wrap yourself well up, darling.”

He put up his hand to draw the furs more closely round her.  When with her now he so easily felt protective that he was perpetually doing little things for her, and he did them with a gentleness of touch that, coming from a man of his healthy strength and vigour, revealed the progress made by the inner man in absence.

“I must be your maid,” he added.

“But you’ll be working and shooting,” she said, speaking out of the depths of her furs in a low voice.

Her face was shrouded in a veil which seemed to muffle her words, and he only just heard them.

“You come first.  I am going to look after you before anything else,” he said.

She pulled up her veil till her lips were free of it.

“But I want your work to come first,” she said, speaking with more energy.  “I hate the woman who marries a man because she admires his character, and who then seeks by every means to change it, to reduce him from a real man to—­well, to a sort of male lady’s maid.  No, Nigel; stick to your work, and I’ll manage all right.”

She felt just then that she could not endure it if he were always intent on her in the Fayyum.  And yet she wished him to be her slave, and she always wished to be adored by men.  But now there was something within her which might, perhaps, in the fulness of time even get the upper hand of her vanity.