“Already?” said his host.

“I dare not allow myself too much idleness.  If once I began to be idle in this climate I should become like an Arab and do nothing all day but sit in the sun.”

“As I do.  Father, we meet very seldom, but whenever we do I feel myself a cumberer of the earth.”

Domini had never before heard him speak with such humbleness.  The priest flushed like a boy.

“We each serve in our own way,” he said quickly.  “The Arab who sits all day in the sun may be heard as a song of praise where He is.”

And then he took his leave.  This time he did not extend his hand to Androvsky, but only bowed to him, lifting his white helmet.  As he went away in the sun with Bous-Bous the three he had left followed him with their eyes.  For Androvsky had turned his chair sideways, as if involuntarily.

“I shall learn to love Father Roubier,” Domini said.

Androvsky moved his seat round again till his back was to the garden, and placed his broad hands palm downward on his knees.

“Yes?” said the Count.

“He is so transparently good, and he bears his great disappointment so beautifully.”

“What great disappointment?”

“He longed to become a monk.”

Androvsky got up from his seat and walked back to the garden doorway.  His restless demeanour and lowering expression destroyed all sense of calm and leisure.  Count Anteoni looked after him, and then at Domini, with a sort of playful surprise.  He was going to speak, but before the words came Smain appeared, carrying reverently a large envelope covered with Arab writing.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” the Count said.

“Of course.”

He took the letter, and at once a vivid expression of excitement shone in his eyes.  When he had read it there was a glow upon his face as if the flames of a fire played over it.

“Miss Enfilden,” he said, “will you think me very discourteous if I leave you for a moment?  The messenger who brought this has come from far and starts to-day on his return journey.  He has come out of the south, three hundred kilometres away, from Beni-Hassan, a sacred village—­a sacred village.”

He repeated the last words, lowering his voice.

“Of course go and see him.”

“And you?”

He glanced towards Androvsky, who was standing with his back to them.

“Won’t you show Monsieur Androvsky the garden?”

Hearing his name Androvsky turned, and the Count at once made his excuses to him and followed Smain towards the garden gate, carrying the letter that had come from Beni-Hassan in his hand.

When he had gone Domini remained on the divan, and Androvsky by the door, with his eyes on the ground.  She took another cigarette from the box on the table beside her, struck a match and lit it carefully.  Then she said: 

“Do you care to see the garden?”