Perhaps his dogged determination about the riding had touched her more than she was aware.  She often saw before her the bent figure, that looked tired, riding alone into the luminous grey; starting thus early that his act, humble and determined, might not be known by her.  He did not know that she had seen him, not only on that morning, but on many subsequent mornings, setting forth to study the new art in the solitude of the still hours.  But the fact that she had seen, had watched till horse and rider vanished beyond the palms, had understood why, perhaps moved her to this permanent wish that he could share her pleasure in the garden, know it as she did.

She did not argue with herself about the matter.  She only knew that she wished, that presently she meant Androvsky to pass through the white gate and be met on the sand by Smain with his rose.

One day Count Anteoni had asked her whether she had made acquaintance with the man who had fled from prayer.

“Yes,” she said.  “You know it.”

“How?”

“We have ridden to Sidi-Zerzour.”

“I am not always by the wall.”

“No, but I think you were that day.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I am sure you were.”

He did not either acknowledge or deny it.

“He has never been to see my garden,” he said.

“No.”

“He ought to come.”

“I have told him so.”

“Ah?  Is he coming?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Persuade him to.  I have a pride in my garden—­oh, you have no idea what a pride!  Any neglect of it, any indifference about it rasps me, plays upon the raw nerve each one of us possesses.”

He spoke smilingly.  She did not know what he was feeling, whether the remote thinker or the imp within him was at work or play.

“I doubt if he is a man to be easily persuaded,” she said.

“Perhaps not—­persuade him.”

After a moment Domini said: 

“I wonder whether you recognise that there are obstacles which the human will can’t negotiate?”

“I could scarcely live where I do without recognising that the grains of sand are often driven by the wind.  But when there is no wind!”

“They lie still?”

“And are the desert.  I want to have a strange experience.”

“What?”

“A fete in my garden.”

“A fantasia?”

“Something far more banal.  A lunch party, a dejeuner.  Will you honour me?”

“By breakfasting with you?  Yes, of course.  Thank you.”

“And will you bring—­the second sun worshipper?”

She looked into the Count’s small, shining eyes.

“Monsieur Androvsky?”

“If that is his name.  I can send him an invitation, of course.  But that’s rather formal, and I don’t think he is formal.”

“On what day do you ask us?”

“Any day—­Friday.”