As Mrs. Armine went down to meet Hamza, she was aware of the loud voices of the shaduf men.  They came from both banks of the Nile—­powerfully from the eastern, faintly from the western bank soon to be drowned in the showers of gold from the sinking sun.  Yet she could hear that even those distant voices were calling loudly, that in their faintness there was violence.  And she thought of the fellah’s voice that cried to her in the orange-garden, and how for a moment she had thought of flight before she had found herself in a prison of prayer.  Now she was in another prison.  But even then the inexorable hands had closed upon her, and the final cry of the fellah had thrilled with a savage triumph.  She had remembered “Aida” that day.  She remembered it again now.  Then, in her youth, she had believed that the passion which had wrecked her was the passion of her life, a madness of the senses, a delirium of the body which could never be repeated in later years for another object.  How little she had known herself or life!  How little she had known the cruel forces of mature age.  That passion of her girlhood seemed to her like an anaemic shadow of the wolfish truth that was alive in her now.  In those days the power to feel, the power to crave, to shudder with jealousy, to go almost mad in the face of a menacing imagination, was not full-grown.  Now it was full-grown, and it was a giant.  Yet in those days she had allowed the shadow to ruin her.  In these she meant to be more wary.  But now she was tortured by a nature that she feared.

The die was cast.  She had no more thought of escape or of resistance.  The supreme selfishness of the materialist, which is like no other selfishness, was fully alive within her.  Believing not at all in any future for her soul, she desired present joy for her clamorous body as no one not a materialist could ever desire.  If she failed in having what she longed for now, while she still retained the glow of her Indian summer, she believed she would have nothing more at all, that all would be finally over for her, that the black gulf would gape for her and that she would vanish into it for ever.  She was a desperate woman, beneath her mask of smiling calm, when the Loulia set sail and glided into the path of the golden evening.

Nevertheless, directly she had descended the shallow steps, and come into the luxurious cabin that was to be her boudoir, she was conscious of a feeling of relief that was almost joy.  The comfort, the perfect arrangements of the Loulia gave her courage.  She was able to look forward.  The soul of her purred with a sensual satisfaction.  She went on down the passage to the room of the fountain and of the gilded ball.  But today the fountain was not playing, and the little ball floated upon the water in the marble basin like a thing that had lost its life.  She felt a slight shock of disappointment.  Then she remembered that they were moving.  Probably the fountain only played when the dahabeeyah was at