Suddenly he stopped.  His gay voice was choked.  She saw that there were tears in his blue eyes, which were fixed on her with an expression of ardent gratitude.  He cleared his throat.

“Monsieur,” he said to Androvsky, “you will not think me presuming on an acquaintance formed in the desert if I say that till the end of my life I—­and my men—­can only think of Madame as of the good Goddess of the desolate Sahara!”

He did not know how Androvsky would take this remark, he did not care.  For the moment in his impulsive nature there was room only for admiration of the woman and, gratitude for her frank kindness.  Androvsky said: 

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

He spoke with an intensity, even a fervour, that were startling.  For the first time since they had been together his voice was absolutely natural, his manner was absolutely unconstrained, he showed himself as he was, a man on fire with love for the woman who had given herself to him, and who received a warm word of praise of her as a gift made to himself.  De Trevignac no longer wondered that Domini was his wife.  Those three words, and the way they were spoken, gave him the man and what he might be in a woman’s life.  Domini looked at her husband silently.  It seemed to her as if her heart were flooded with light, as if desolate Mogar were the Garden of Eden before the angel came.  When they spoke again it was on some indifferent topic.  But from that moment the meal went more merrily.  Androvsky seemed to lose his strange uneasiness.  De Trevignac met him more than half-way.  Something of the gaiety round the camp fire had entered into the tent.  A chain of sympathy had been forged between these three people.  Possibly, a touch might break it, but for the moment it seemed strong.

At the end of the dinner Domini got up.

“We have no formalities in the desert,” she said.  “But I’m going to leave you together for a moment.  Give Monsieur de Trevignac a cigar, Boris.  Coffee is coming directly.”

She went out towards the camp fire.  She wanted to leave the men together to seal their good fellowship.  Her husband’s change from taciturnity to cordiality had enchanted her.  Happiness was dancing within her.  She felt gay as a child.  Between the fire and the tent she met Ouardi carrying a tray.  On it were a coffee-pot, cups, little glasses and a tall bottle of a peculiar shape with a very thin neck and bulging sides.

“What’s that, Ouardi?” she asked, touching it with her finger.

“That is an African liqueur, Madame, that you have never tasted.  Batouch told me to bring it in honour of Monsieur the officer.  They call it—­”

“Another surprise of Batouch’s!” she interrupted gaily.  “Take it in!  Monsieur the officer will think we have quite a cellar in the desert.”