"Does not its luxuriance surprise you after England?" he said.

"No," she replied bluntly. "Ever since I have been in Africa I have felt
that I was in a land of passionate growth."

"But--the desert?" he replied with a gesture towards the long flats of
the Sahara, which were still visible between the trees.

"I should find it there too," she answered. "There, perhaps, most of
all."

He looked at her with a gentle wonder. She did not explain that she was
no longer thinking of growth in Nature.

The _salle-a-manger_ stood at the end of a broad avenue of palms not far
from the villa. Two Arab servants were waiting on each side of the white
step that led into an ante-room filled with divans and coffee-tables.
Beyond was a lofty apartment with an arched roof, in the centre of
which was an oval table laid for breakfast, and decorated with masses of
trumpet-shaped scarlet flowers in silver vases. Behind each of the four
high-backed chairs stood an Arab motionless as a statue. Evidently the
Count's _fete_ was to be attended by a good deal of ceremony. Domini
felt sorry, though not for herself. She had been accustomed to ceremony
all her life, and noticed it, as a rule, almost as little as the air
she breathed. But she feared that to Androvsky it would be novel and
unpleasant. As they came into the shady room she saw him glance swiftly
at the walls covered with dark Persian hangings, at the servants in
their embroidered jackets, wide trousers, and snow-white turbans, at
the vivid flowers on the table, then at the tall windows, over which
flexible outside blinds, dull green in colour, were drawn; and it seemed
to her that he was feeling like a trapped animal, full of a fury of
uneasiness. Father Roubier's unconscious serenity in the midst of a
luxury to which he was quite unaccustomed emphasised Androvsky's secret
agitation, which was no secret to Domini, and which she knew must be
obvious to Count Anteoni. She began to wish ardently that she had let
Androvsky follow his impulse to go when he heard of Father Roubier's
presence.

They sat down. She was on the Count's right hand, with Androvsky
opposite to her and Father Roubier on her left. As they took their
places she and the Father said a silent grace and made the sign of the
Cross, and when she glanced up after doing so she saw Androvsky's hand
lifted to his forehead. For a moment she fancied that he had joined
in the tiny prayer, and was about to make the sacred sig