Her forehead was wrinkled by a frown.  She hated to hear a man who loved her speak of his poverty.  It had become a habit of her mind to think that no man had a right to love her unless he could give her exactly what she wanted.

“Shall we go out, Ruby?”

“Very well.”

They stepped out on to the waste ground.  His hand was still on her arm, and he led her down to the stream.  The young moon was already setting.  The starry sky was flecked here and there with gossamer veils of cloud.  A heavy dew was falling upon the dense growths of the oasis, and in the distance of the palm-grove, where gleamed the lamp from the tent of the German lady and the young Arab, a faint and pearly mist was rising.  Nigel drew in his breath, then let it out.  It went in vapour from his lips.

“We’ve left the dryness of Upper Egypt,” he said.  “This is the country of fertility, the country where things grow.  The dews at night are splendid.  But wait a moment.  I’ll get you a cloak.  I’m your maid, remember.”

He fetched a cloak and wrapped it round her.

“I suppose the Loulia is far up the river,” he said.  “Perhaps at Assouan.  I wonder if we shall see Baroudi some day again.  I think he’s a good sort of fellow; but after all, one can never get really quite in touch with an Eastern.  I used to think one could.  I used to swear it, but—­”

He shook his head and puffed at his cigar.  Quite unconsciously he had taken the husband’s tone.  There was something in the very timbre of his voice which seemed to assume Ruby’s agreement.  She longed to startle him, to say she was far more in touch with an Eastern than she could ever be with him, but she thought of the dahabeeyah, the Nile, the getting away from here.

“To tell the truth,” she said, “I have always felt that.  There is an impassable barrier between East and West.”

She looked at the distant light among the palm-trees.  Then, with contempt, she added: 

“Those who try to overleap it must be mad, or worse.”

Nigel’s face grew stern.

“Yes,” he said.  “I loathe condemnation.  But there are some things which really are unforgivable.”

He swung out his arm towards the light.

“And that is one of them.  I hate to see that light so near us.  It is the only blot on perfection.”

“Don’t look at it,” she murmured.

His unusual expression of vigorous, sane disgust, and almost of indignation, partly fascinated and partly alarmed her.

“Don’t think of it.  It has nothing to do with us.  Hark!  What’s that?”

A clear note, like the note of a little flute, sounded from the farther side of the stream, was reiterated many times.  Nigel’s face relaxed.  The sternness vanished from it, and was replaced by an ardent expression that made it look almost like the face of a romantic boy.

“It’s—­it’s the Egyptian Pan by the water,” he whispered.