ion. 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?"

He went towards the great door, and Domini sat do