She was not thinking of herself, but of him.  Instinct told her to teach him the way to conceal his aversion.  Retreat would proclaim it.

“For yourself I ask you,” she added.  “If you go, you tell them what you have told me.  You don’t wish to do that.”

They looked at each other.  Then, without a word, he walked on again.  As she kept beside him she felt as if in that moment their acquaintanceship had sprung forward, like a thing that had been forcibly restrained and that was now sharply released.  They did not speak again till they saw, at the end of an alley, the Count and the priest standing together beneath the jamelon tree.  Bous-Bous ran forward barking, and Domini was conscious that Androvsky braced himself up, like a fighter stepping into the arena.  Her keen sensitiveness of mind and body was so infected by his secret impetuosity of feeling that it seemed to her as if his encounter with the two men framed in the sunlight were a great event which might be fraught with strange consequences.  She almost held her breath as she and Androvsky came down the path and the fierce sunrays reached out to light up their faces.

Count Anteoni stepped forward to greet them.

“Monsieur Androvsky—­Count Anteoni,” she said.

The hands of the two men met.  She saw that Androvsky’s was lifted reluctantly.

“Welcome to my garden,” Count Anteoni said with his invariable easy courtesy.  “Every traveller has to pay his tribute to my domain.  I dare to exact that as the oldest European inhabitant of Beni-Mora.”

Androvsky said nothing.  His eyes were on the priest.  The Count noticed it, and added: 

“Do you know Father Roubier?”

“We have often seen each other in the hotel,” Father Roubier said with his usual straightforward simplicity.

He held out his hand, but Androvsky bowed hastily and awkwardly and did not seem to see it.  Domini glanced at Count Anteoni, and surprised a piercing expression in his bright eyes.  It died away at once, and he said: 

“Let us go to the salle-a-manger. Dejeuner will be ready, Miss Enfilden.”

She joined him, concealing her reluctance to leave Androvsky with the priest, and walked beside him down the path, preceded by Bous-Bous.

“Is my fete going to be a failure?” he murmured.

She did not reply.  Her heart was full of vexation, almost of bitterness.  She felt angry with Count Anteoni, with Androvsky, with herself.  She almost felt angry with poor Father Roubier.

“Forgive me! do forgive me!” the Count whispered.  “I meant no harm.”

She forced herself to smile, but the silence behind them, where the two men were following, oppressed her.  If only Androvsky would speak!  He had not said one word since they were all together.  Suddenly she turned her head and said: 

“Did you ever see such palms, Monsieur Androvsky?  Aren’t they magnificent?”