had seen Bous-Bous endeavour to renew the intimacy and repulsed with determination.  Androvsky must dislike the priesthood.  He might fancy that she, a believing Catholic, had—­a number of disagreeable suppositions ran through her mind.  She had always been inclined to hate the propagandist since the tragedy in her family.  It was a pity Count Anteoni had not indulged his imp in a different fashion.  The beauty of the noon seemed spoiled.

“Forgive my malice,” Count Anteoni said.  “It was really a thing of thistledown.  Can it be going to do harm?  I can scarcely think so.”

“No, no.”

She roused herself, with the instinct of a woman who has lived much in the world, to conceal the vexation that, visible, would cause a depression to stand in the natural place of cheerfulness.

“The desert is making me abominably natural,” she thought.

At this moment the black figure of Father Roubier came out of the shadows of the trees with Bous-Bous trotting importantly beside it.

“Ah, Father,” said Count Anteoni, going to meet him, while Domini got up from her chair, “it is good of you to come out in the sun to eat fish with such a bad parishioner as I am.  Your little companion is welcome.”

He patted Bous-Bous, who took little notice of him.

“You know Miss Enfilden, I think?” continued the Count.

“Father Roubier and I meet every day,” said Domini, smiling.

“Mademoiselle has been good enough to take a kind interest in the humble work of the Church in Beni-Mora,” said the priest with the serious simplicity characteristic of him.

He was a sincere man, utterly without pretension, and, as such men often are, quietly at home with anybody of whatever class or creed.

“I must go to the garden gate,” Domini said.  “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“To meet Monsieur Androvsky?  Let us accompany you if Father Roubier—­”

“Please don’t trouble.  I won’t be a minute.”

Something in her voice made Count Anteoni at once acquiesce, defying his courteous instinct.

“We will wait for you here,” he said.

There was a whimsical plea for forgiveness in his eyes.  Domini’s did not reject it; they did not answer it.  She walked away, and the two men looked after her tall figure with admiration.  As she went along the sand paths between the little streams, and came into the deep shade, her vexation seemed to grow darker like the garden ways.  For a moment she thought she understood the sensations that must surely sometimes beset a treacherous woman.  Yet she was incapable of treachery.  Smain was standing dreamily on the great sweep of sand before the villa.  She and he were old friends now, and every day he calmly gave her a flower when she came into the garden.

“What time is it, Smain?”

“Nearly half-past twelve, Madame.”

“Will you open the door and see if anyone is coming?”