n, but as she
looked at him his hand fell heavily to the table. The glasses by his
plate jingled.

"I only remembered this morning that this is a _jour maigre_," said
Count Anteoni as they unfolded their napkins. "I am afraid, Father
Roubier, you will not be able to do full justice to my chef, Hamdane,
although he has thought of you and done his best for you. But I hope
Miss Enfilden and--"

"I keep Friday," Domini interrupted quietly.

"Yes? Poor Hamdane!"

He looked in grave despair, but she knew that he was really pleased that
she kept the fast day.

"Anyhow," he continued, "I hope that you, Monsieur Androvsky, will be
able to join me in testing Hamdane's powers to the full. Or are you
too----"

He did not continue, for Androvsky at once said, in a loud and firm
voice:

"I keep no fast days."

The words sounded like a defiance flung at the two Catholics, and for a
moment Domini thought that Father Roubier was going to treat them as a
challenge, for he lifted his head and there was a flash of sudden fire
in his eyes. But he only said, turning to the Count:

"I think Mademoiselle and I shall find our little Ramadan a very easy
business. I once breakfasted with you on a Friday--two years ago it was,
I think--and I have not forgotten the banquet you gave me."

Domini felt as if the priest had snubbed Androvsky, as a saint might
snub, without knowing that he did so. She was angry with Androvsky, and
yet she was full of pity for him. Why could he not meet courtesy with
graciousness? There was something almost inhuman in his demeanour.
To-day he had returned to his worst self, to the man who had twice
treated her with brutal rudeness.

"Do the Arabs really keep Ramadan strictly?" she asked, looking away
from Androvsky.

"Very," said Father Roubier. "Although, of course, I am not in sympathy
with their religion, I have often been moved by their adherence to its
rules. There is something very grand in the human heart deliberately
taking upon itself the yoke of discipline."

"Islam--the very word means the surrender of the human will to the will
of God," said Count Anteoni. "That word and its meaning lie like the
shadow of a commanding hand on the soul of every Arab, even of the
absinthe-drinking renegades one sees here and there who have caught the
vices of their conquerors. In the greatest scoundrel that the Prophet's
robe covers there is an abiding and acute sense of necessary surrender.
The Arabs, at any