“Hush!” she whispered.  “I want to listen.”

This was like a serenade of the East designed to give her a welcome to Egypt, like the voice of this great, black Africa speaking to her alone out of the night, speaking with a fierce insistence, daring her not to listen to it, not to accept its barbaric summons.  A sort of animal romance was stirred within her, and she began to feel strongly excited.  She heard no longer the name of Allah, or, if she heard it, she connected it no longer with the Christian’s conception of a God, with Nigel’s conception of a God, but perhaps with strange idols in dusky temples where are mingled crimes and worship.  Her imagination suddenly rose up, gathered its energies, and ran wild.

The boat stayed opposite the garden.

“It must be meant for me, it is meant for me!” she thought.

At that moment she knew quite certainly that this boat had come to the garden because she lived in the garden, that it paused so that she might be sure that the music was directed to her, was meant for no one but her.  It was not for her and Nigel.  Nigel had nothing to do with it.  He did not understand its meaning.

At last the boat moved on, the flickering spears of light on the water travelled on and turned away, the voices floated away under the stars till the night enfolded them, the light and the music were taken and kept by the sleepless mystery of Egypt.

“Shall we go into the villa, Ruby?” said Nigel, almost diffidently, yet with a thrill in his voice.

She did not answer for a moment, then she said,

“Yes, I suppose it is time to go to bed.”

Nigel drew her arm again through his, and they went away towards the house, while Ibrahim looked after them, smiling.

XIII

“Ruby,” said Nigel, a fortnight later, coming into his wife’s bedroom after the morning walk on the river bank which invariably succeeded his plunge into the Nile, “whom do you think I’ve just met in Luxor?”

He was holding a packet of letters and papers in his hand.  The post had just arrived.

Mrs. Armine, wrapped in a long white gown which did not define her figure, with her shining hair coiled loosely at the back of her neck, was sitting before the toilet-table, and looked round over her shoulder.

“Some one we both know, Nigel?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Not the magenta and red together, then?”

“The Haymans—­no, though I believe they are here at the Winter Palace.”

“God bless them!” she murmured, with a slight contraction of her forehead.  “Is it a man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“A man!” She turned right round, with a sharp movement, holding the arms of her chair tightly.  “Not Meyer Isaacson?”

“Isaacson!  Good heavens!  He never takes a holiday except in August.  Dear old chap!  No, this is some one not specially interesting, but not bad; only Baroudi.”