“Nigel!” she called out.  “Nigel!”

She immediately heard a slow step, and saw her husband coming towards her from the drawing-room.  She thought he looked very ill.

“Well, Ruby, you are back,” he said.

He held out his hand.  His eyes, which were curiously sunken, gazed into hers with a sort of wistful, yearning expression.

“Yes,” she said.  “I hurried.  I couldn’t stand Cairo.  It was hot and dreadful.  And I felt miserable there.”

They were standing in the little hall.

“You look fearfully tired—­fearfully!” he said.

He was still holding her hand.

Her mouth twisted.

“Do I?  It’s the two night journeys.  I didn’t sleep at all.”

“And the maid?  Did you get one?”

“No.  What does it matter?”

Infinitely unimportant to her now seemed such a quest.

“I must sit down,” she added.  “I’m nearly dead.”

She really felt as if her physical powers were failing her.  Her legs shook under her.

“Come into the drawing-room.  And you must have some breakfast.”

He let go her hand.  She went into the drawing-room, and she sank down on a sofa.  He followed almost immediately.

“Oh!” she said.

She leaned back against the cushions, stretched out her arms, and shut her eyes.  All the time she was thinking, “Baroudi is here!  Baroudi is here!  And I can’t go to him; I can’t go—­I can’t go!”

She seemed to see his mighty throat, his eyebrows, slanting upwards above his great bold eyes, his large, muscular hands, his deep chest of an athlete.

She heard Nigel sitting down close to her.

“Why didn’t Ibrahim come to the station?” she said, with an effort opening her eyes.

“Oh, I suppose he was busy,” Nigel replied.

His voice sounded cautious and uneasy.

“Busy?”

“Yes.  He’ll bring your breakfast.  I’ve told him to.”

Then he was in the house.  She felt a slight sense of relief, she scarcely knew why.

The door opened, and Ibrahim came in quietly and carefully with a tray.

“Good mornin’ to you, my lady,” he said.

“Good morning, Ibrahim.”

He set down the tray without noise, stood for a minute as if considering it, then softly went away.

“You’ll feel better when you’ve had breakfast.”

“I ought to have had a bath first.  But I couldn’t wait.”

She sat up in front of the little table, and poured out the strong tea.  As she did this, she glanced again at her husband and again thought how ill he looked.  But she did not remark upon it.  She drank some tea, and ate a piece of toast.

“Oh,” she said, “as I passed by the Winter Palace, I saw Doctor Isaacson on the terrace.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.  What’s he gone there for this morning?”

“I suppose he’s staying there.”