seemed to
her that he was right, that it were better never to be the prey of any
deep emotion.

"If one does not wish to feel one should never come to such a place as
this," she added.

And she longed to ask him why he was here, he, a man whose philosophy
told him to avoid the heights and depths, to shun the ardours of nature
and of life.

"Or, having come, one should leave it."

A sensation of lurking danger increased upon her, bringing with it the
thought of flight.

"One can always do that," she said, looking at him. She saw fear in his
eyes, but it seemed to her that it was not fear of peril, but fear of
flight. So strongly was this idea borne in upon her that she bluntly
exclaimed:

"Unless it is one's nature to face things, never to turn one's back. Is
it yours, Monsieur Androvsky?"

"Fear could never drive me to leave Beni-Moni," he answered.

"Sometimes I think that the only virtue in us is courage," she said,
"that it includes all the others. I believe I could forgive everything
where I found absolute courage."

Androvsky's eyes were lit up as if by a flicker of inward fire.

"You might create the virtue you love," he said hoarsely.

They looked at each other for a moment. Did he mean that she might
create it in him?

Perhaps she would have asked, or perhaps he would have told her, but at
that moment something happened. Larbi stopped playing. In the last few
minutes they had both forgotten that he was playing, but when he ceased
the garden changed. Something was withdrawn in which, without knowing
it, they had been protecting themselves, and when the music faded their
armour dropped away from them. With the complete silence came an altered
atmosphere, the tenderness of mysticism instead of the tenderness of a
wild humanity. The love of man seemed to depart out of the garden and
another love to enter it, as when God walked under the trees in the cool
of the day. And they sat quite still, as if a common impulse muted their
lips. In the long silence that followed Domini thought of her mirage of
the palm tree growing towards the African sun, feeling growing in the
heart of a human being. But was it a worthy image? For the palm tree
rises high. It soars into the air. But presently it ceases to grow.
There is nothing infinite in its growth. And the long, hot years pass
away and there it stands, never nearer to the infinite gold of the sun.
But in the intense feeling of a man or woman is there not inf