“You have told me enough of your past life to make me feel sure that for some time to come you ought to be very careful in regard to your faith.  By the mercy of God you have been preserved from the greatest of all dangers—­the danger of losing your belief in the teachings of the only true Church.  You have come here to renew your faith which, not killed, has been stricken, reduced, may I not say? to a sort of invalidism.  Are you sure you are in a condition yet to help”—­he hesitated obviously, then slowly—­“others?  There are periods in which one cannot do what one may be able to do in the far future.  The convalescent who is just tottering in the new attempt to walk is not wise enough to lend an arm to another.  To do so may seem nobly unselfish, but is it not folly?  And then, my child, we ought to be scrupulously aware what is our real motive for wishing to assist another.  Is it of God, or is it of ourselves?  Is it a personal desire to increase a perhaps unworthy, a worldly happiness?  Egoism is a parent of many children, and often they do not recognise their father.”

Just for a moment Domini felt a heat of anger rise within her.  She did not express it, and did not know that she had shown a sign of it till she heard Father Roubier say: 

“If you knew how often I have found that what for a moment I believed to be my noblest aspirations had sprung from a tiny, hidden seed of egoism!”

At once her anger died away.

“That is terribly true,” she said.  “Of us all, I mean.”

She got up.

“You are going?”

“Yes.  I want to think something out.  You have made me want to.  I must do it.  Perhaps I’ll come again.”

“Do.  I want to help you if I can.”

There was such a heartfelt sound in his voice that impulsively she held out her hand.

“I know you do.  Perhaps you will be able to.”

But even as she said the last words doubt crept into her mind, even into her voice.

The priest came to his gate to see Domini off, and directly she had left him she noticed that Androvsky was under the arcade and had been a witness of their parting.  As she went past him and into the hotel she saw that he looked greatly disturbed and excited.  His face was lit up by the now fiery glare of the sun, and when, in passing, she nodded to him, and he took off his hat, he cast at her a glance that was like an accusation.  As soon as she gained the verandah she heard his heavy step upon the stair.  For a moment she hesitated.  Should she go into her room and so avoid him, or remain and let him speak to her?  She knew that he was following her with that purpose.  Her mind was almost instantly made up.  She crossed the verandah and sat down in the low chair that was always placed outside her French window.  Androvsky followed her and stood beside her.  He did not say anything for a moment, nor did she.  Then he spoke with a sort of passionate attempt to sound careless and indifferent.