Quite near them, not level with their table, but a little behind it on the right, within easy range of her eyes, Lord and Lady Hayman were sitting, with another English couple, a Sir John and Lady Murchison, smart, gambling, racing, pleasure-loving people, who seemed to be everywhere at the same time, and never to miss any function of importance where their “set” put in an appearance.  Lady Murchison was a pretty and vindictive blonde—­the sort of woman who looks as if she would bite you if you did not let her have her way.  She was smiling cruelly now, and murmuring to Lady Hayman, a naturally large, but powerfully compressed personage, with a too-sanguine complexion insufficiently corrected by powder, and a too-autocratic temperament insufficiently corrected by Lord Hayman.

All these people—­Mrs. Armine knew it “in her bones”—­had just been reading the Morning Post.  Here in Egypt they stood for “London.”  She saw London’s verdict, “Serve her right,” in their cool smiles, their moments of direct attention to herself—­an attention hard, insolent, frigid as steel—­in the curious glances of pity combined with a sort of animal, almost school-boy, amusement, which the two men sent towards Nigel.

She looked from “London” to “Egypt,” represented by Baroudi.  In marrying Nigel she had longed to set her heel upon the London which had despised her; she had hoped some day to set the heel of Lady Harwich upon more than one woman whom she had known before she was cast out.  Secretly she had reckoned upon that, as upon something that was certain, something for which she had only to wait.  Lord Harwich was worn out, and he was a wildly reckless man, always having accidents, always breaking his bones.  She would only have to wait.

And now—­twin boys, and all London smiling!

Again she looked at Baroudi.  The fervent and melancholy music was rising towards a climax.  It caught hold of her now, had her in a grip, swept her onwards.  When it ceased, she felt as if she had been carried away from “London,” and from those old ambitions and hopes for ever.

Baroudi’s great eyes were upon her, and seemed to read her thoughts; and now for the first time she felt uneasy under their resolute gaze, felt the desire, almost the necessity to escape from it and to be unwatched.

“Have you had enough of the music, Nigel?” she said to her husband, as the musicians lifted their chins from their instruments, and let their arms drop down.

He started.

“What, Ruby?  By Jove, they do play well!”

There was a look in his eyes almost as of one coming back from a long and dark journey underground into the light of day.  That music had taken him back to the side of the girl whom he had loved, and who had died so long ago.  Now he looked at the woman who was living, and to whom the great power to love which was within him was being directed, on whom it was being concentrated.