“He’s a thousand times cleverer than I am.”

“Yes, he’s so clever that he’s distrustful.  Now, for instance, he’d never believe in a woman like me.”

“Oh—­” he began, in a tone of energetic protest.

“No, he wouldn’t,” she interrupted, quietly.  “To the end of time he would judge me by the past.  He would label me ‘woman to beware of’ and my most innocent actions, my most impulsive attempts to show forth my true and better self he would entirely misinterpret, brilliant man though he is.  Nigel, believe me, we women know!”

“But, then, surely you must dislike Isaacson very much!”

“On the contrary, I like him.”

“I can’t understand that.”

“I don’t require of him any of the splendid things that—­well, that I do require of you, because I could never care for him.  If he were to play me false, even if he were to hate me a thousand times more than he does, it wouldn’t upset me, because I could never care for him.”

“You think Isaacson hates you!” he exclaimed.

He had forgotten the gold of the sunset, the liquid gold of the river.  He saw only her, thought only of what she was saying, thinking.

“Nigel, tell me the truth.  Do you think he likes me?”

He looked down.

“He doesn’t know you.  If he did—­”

“If he did, it would make not a bit of difference.”

“I think it would; all the difference.”

She smilingly shook her head.

“I should always wear my label, ‘woman to beware of.’  But what does it matter?  I’m not married to him.  If I were, ah, then I should be the most miserable woman on earth—­now!”

He sat down close to her in another beehive chair.

“Ruby, why did you say ‘now’ like that?”

“Oh,” she spoke in a tone of lightness that sounded assumed, “because now I’ve lived in an atmosphere not of mistrust.  And it’s spoilt me completely.”

He felt within him a glow strong and golden as the glow of the sunset.  At last she had forgotten their painful scene in the garden.  He had fought for and had won her soul’s forgetfulness.

“I’m glad,” he said, with the Englishman’s almost blunt simplicity—­“I’m glad.  I wish Isaacson knew.”

She felt as if she frowned, but not a wrinkle came on her forehead.

“I didn’t tell you,” he added, “but I wrote to Isaacson the other day.”

“Did you?”

Her hands met in her lap, and her fingers clasped.

“Yes, I sent him quite a good letter.  I told him we were going up the Nile in Baroudi’s boat, and how splendid you were looking, and how immensely happy we were.  I told him we were going to cut all the travellers, and just live for our two selves in the quiet places where there are no steamers and no other dahabeeyahs.  And I told him how magnificently well I was.”

“Oh, treating him as the great Doctor, I suppose!”