“I do wish you could pay Nigel a visit,” she said.  Then, in a very frank and almost cordial voice, she added, “Look here, Doctor Isaacson, let’s make a bargain.  I’ll go back to the dahabeeyah and see how he is, how he’s feeling—­sound him, in fact.  If I think it’s all right, I’ll send you a note to come on board.  If he’s very down, or disinclined for company—­even yours—­I’ll ask you to give up the idea and just to put off your visit for a few days, and come to see us at Assouan.  After all, Nigel may wish to see you, and it might even do him good.  I’m perhaps over-anxious to obey doctor’s orders, inclined to be too careful.  Shall we leave it like that?”

“Thank you very much.”

She got up, and so did he.

“Of course,” she said, “if I do have to say no after all—­I don’t think I shall—­but if I do, I know you’ll understand, and pass us without disturbing my husband.  As a doctor, you won’t misunderstand me.”

“Certainly not.”

She pulled at her veil again.

“Well, then—­” She held out her hand.

“Oh, but I’ll go with you to your donkey,” he said.  “I suppose you came on a donkey?  Or was it in a boat?”

“No; I rode.”

“Then let me look for your donkey-boy.”

“He went to see friends in the village, but no doubt he’s come back.  I’ll find him easily.”

But he insisted on accompanying her.  They came out of the first court, through the narrow and lofty portal upon which traces of the exquisite blue-green, the “love colour,” still linger.  This colour makes an effect that is akin to the effect that would be made by a thin but intense cry of joy rising up in a sombre temple.  Isaacson looked up at it.  He thought it suggested woman as she ought to be in the life of a man—­something exquisite, delicate, ethereal, touchingly fascinating, protected and held by strength.  He was still thinking of the love colour, and of his companion when Hamza stood before them, still, calm, changeless as a bronze in the brilliant light of the morning.  One of his thin and delicate hands was laid on the red bridle of a magnificent donkey.  He looked upon them with his wonderfully expressive Eastern eyes, which yet kept all his secrets.

“What a marvellous type!” Isaacson said, in French, to Mrs. Armine.

“Hamza—­yes.”

“His name is Hamza?”

She nodded.

“He comes from Luxor.  Good-bye again.  And I’ll send you the note some time this morning, or in the early afternoon.”

With a quick easy movement, like that of a young woman, she was in the saddle, helped by the hand of Hamza.

Isaacson heard her sigh as she rode away.

XXXIII