He got up slowly out of his chair.

“But the—­the strangest thing Isaacson said was this.”

He put one hand on the back of the chair, and leaned down a little towards her.

“He said that at last he forced you to let him attend me as a doctor by—­by threatening you.”

“Oh!”

“By threatening, if you would not, to call in the police authorities.”

She said nothing.  All he was saying flowed past her like running water.  No more than running water did it mean to her.  Apparently she had fought and struggled too long, and the revenge of nature upon her was this terrible indifference following upon so much of terror, of strife, of enforced and desperate patience.

“Ruby!”

* * * * *

“Ruby!”

“Well?” She looked at him.  “What is it?”

“You don’t say anything!”

“Why should I?  What do you want me to say?”

“Want!  I—­but—­”

He bent down.

“You—­you don’t think—­you aren’t thinking that I—?”

“Well?”

“I’ve told you this to prove my complete trust in you.  I’ve only told you so that there may be nothing between us, no shadow; as even such a thing, hidden, might be.”

“Ah!”

“And if there are things I don’t understand, I know—­they are such trifles in comparison—­I know you’ll explain.  Won’t you?”

“Not to-night.  I can’t explain things to-night.”

“No.  You’re tired out.  To-morrow—­to-morrow!”

“Ah!” she said again.

He leant right down to her, and took both her hands.

“Come upstairs with me!  Come!” She stood up.  “Come!  I’ll prove to you—­I’ll prove to you—­”

There was a sort of desperation of crude passion in his manner.

He tried to draw her towards the house.  She resisted him.

“Ruby!”

“I’m not coming.”

He stopped.

“Ruby!” he said again, but with a different voice.

“I’m not coming!”

His hands grew cold on hers.  He let her hands go.  They dropped to her sides.

“So you didn’t believe what Isaacson told you?” she said.

Her only thought was, “I’ll make him give me my liberty!  I’ll make him give me my liberty, so that Baroudi must keep me!”

“What?” he said.

“You didn’t believe what Isaacson told you?” she repeated.

“Believe it!  I turned him out!”

“You fool!” she said.

She moved a step nearer to him.

“You fool!” she repeated.  “It’s true!”

She snatched up the gilded box from the table.  He tore it out of her hands.

“Who—­who—?” he whispered, with lips that had gone white.

“Mahmoud Baroudi,” she said.

The box fell from his hands to the terrace, scattering the aids to her beauty, which he had always hated.

She turned, pulled her cloak closely round her, and hurried to the bank of the Nile.