This evening her face seemed to retain in its skin an effect of her outburst of passion, a sensation of dryness and harshness, as if it were unduly stretched over the flesh and had lost its normal elasticity.  Just before she came out of her bedroom, Marie, with a sort of reluctant admiration, had exclaimed, “Madame est exquise ce soir!” She wondered if it were true, and as the voices without grew softer for a moment, more distant, she went to stand again before a mirror, and to ask herself that question.

She had chosen to put on a walking-dress instead of a tea-gown, because she believed that in it she would look younger, her splendid figure being still one of her greatest advantages.  Yes, her figure was superb, and this gown showed it off superbly.  The long quiet of her very dull life in London while she had known Nigel, followed by her comparative repose in the splendid climate of Egypt, had done wonders for her appearance.  Certainly to-night, despite any ravages made by her injudicious yielding to anger, she looked years younger than she had looked in Isaacson’s consulting-room.  The wrinkles about her eyes showed scarcely at all, or—­not at all.  And she was marvellously fair.

Orientals delight in fairness, and always suppose Occidentals to be years younger than they really are, if they have succeeded in retaining any of the charms of youth.

Marie was not far wrong.

She turned to step out upon the terrace.

“Ah, Mahmoud Baroudi!” she said, with a sort of lazy but charming indifference, as the two men came to meet her.  “So you have come up the river to look after—­what is it? your something—­your sugar?”

“My sugar; exactly, madame,” he replied gravely, bowing over her hand.  “I hope you will forgive my intrusion.  Your husband kindly insisted on bringing me over—­and in flannels.”

His apology was extremely composed, but Nigel was looking a little excited, a little anxious, was begging forgiveness with his eyes for all the trouble of the morning.  She was not going to seem to give it him yet; a man on the tenter-hooks was a man in the perfectly right place.  So she was suave, and avoided his glance without seeming to avoid it.  They strolled about a little, talking lightly of nothing particular; then she said, speaking for the first time directly to her husband,

“Nigel, don’t you think you’d better just go and tell Hassan we shall be three at dinner, and have a little talk to the cook?  Your Arabic will have more effect upon the servants than my English.  Mahmoud Baroudi and I will sit on the terrace till you come back.”

“Right you are!” he said.

And he went off at once, leaving them together.

As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Armine sat down on a basket chair.  For a moment she said nothing.  In the silence her face changed.  The almost lazy naturalness and simplicity faded gradually out of it, revealing the alert and seductive woman of the world.  Even her body seemed to change, to become more sensitive, more conscious, under the eyes of Baroudi; and all the woman in her, who till now, save for a few subtle and fleeting indications of life, had lain almost quiescent, rose suddenly and signalled boldly to attract the attention of this man, who sat down a little way from her, and gazed at her in silence with an Oriental directness and composure.