“I’m afraid my coming at this hour has surprised you very much.  Do forgive me, but—­”

“What about my note?” she asked.

“May I sit down?  What marvellous rugs!  What an extraordinary boat this is!”

“Oh, sit—­the divan!  Yes, the rugs are fine—­of course.”

Hastily, and moving without her usual grace, she went to the nearest divan.  He followed her.  She sat down, but did not lean back.  She had dropped his card on the floor.

“You read my note!  Well, then—?”

It seemed to Isaacson that within his companion there was at this moment a violent mental struggle going on as to what course she should take, now, immediately; as if something within her was clamouring for defiance, something else was pleading for diplomacy.  He felt that he was close to an almost red-hot violence, and wondered intensely whether it was going to have its way.  He wondered, but he did not care.  For he knew that nothing his companion did could change his inward decision.  And even in a moment that was like a black thing lit up by tragic fires he enjoyed his alert mentality, as an athlete enjoys his power to give a tremendous blow even if he has just seen a sight that has waked in him horror.

“Well, then?” she repeated, always speaking in a very low voice, though not in a whisper.

A cuckoo clock sounded.  She sprang up.

“That wretched—!”

She went over to the clock, tore the little door in the front out, inserted her fingers in the opening.  There was a dry sound of tearing and splintering.  She came back with minute drops of blood on her fingers.

“It drives Nigel mad!” she said.  “It ought to have been stopped long ago.  You got my note, and I your answer.”

“And of course you think that I ought not to have come to-night.”

She looked at him and sat down again.  And by the way of her sitting down he knew that she had come to a decision as to conduct.

“I suppose you felt uneasy, and thought you would like to enquire a little more of me.  Was that it?”

“I did feel a little uneasy, I confess.”

“How did you come to-night?”

“I walked.”

“Walked?  Alone?”

“Quite alone.”

“All that way!  I’ll send you back in the felucca.”

“Oh, that will be all right.”

“No, no, you shall have the felucca.”

She touched an electric bell.  Hamza came.

“The felucca, Hamza.”

“Yes.”

He went.

“They’ll get it ready.”

She moved some cushions.  Isaacson noticed a yellowish tinge about her temples, just beyond the corners of her eyes above the cheek-bones.  Most of her face was not made up, though there were one or two dabs of powder as well as the rouge.

“They’ll get it ready in a moment,” she repeated.

She turned towards him, smiling suddenly.

“And so you felt uneasy, and thought you’d hear a little more, and came at night so as not to startle or disturb him.  That was good of you.  The fact is, I didn’t tell him I had met you to-day.  I intended to, but when I got here I gave up the idea.”