" she asked.

She was standing by one of the beds.

"What has happened?"

"Why--happened?"

"I don't understand. Why did Monsieur de Trevignac go away so suddenly?"

"Domini, do you care whether he is here or gone? Do you care?" He sat on
the edge of the bed and drew her down beside him.

"Do you want anyone to be with us, to break in upon our lives? Aren't we
happier alone?"

"Boris!" she said, "you--did you let him see that you wanted him to go?"

It occurred to her suddenly that Androvsky, in his lack of worldly
knowledge, might perhaps have shown their guest that he secretly
resented the intrusion of a stranger upon them even for one evening, and
that De Trevignac, being a sensitive man, had been hurt and had abruptly
gone away. Her social sense revolted at this idea.

"You didn't let him see that, Boris!" she exclaimed. "After his escape
from death! It would have been inhuman."

"Perhaps my love for you might even make me that, Domini. And if it
did--if you knew why I was inhuman--would you blame me for it? Would you
hate me for it?"

There was a strong excitement dawning in him. It recalled to her the
first night in the desert when they sat together on the ground and
watched the waning of the fire.

"Could you--could you hate me for anything, Domini?" he said. "Tell
me--could you?"

His face was close to hers. She looked at him with her long, steady
eyes, that had truth written in their dark fire.

"No," she answered. "I could never hate you--now."

"Not if--not if I had done you harm? Not if I had done you a wrong?"

"Could you ever do me a wrong?" she asked.

She sat, looking at him as if in deep thought, for a moment.

"I could almost as easily believe that God could," she said at last
simply.

"Then you--you have perfect trust in me?"

"But--have you ever thought I had not?" she asked. There was wonder in
her voice.

"But I have given my life to you," she added still with wonder. "I am
here in the desert with you. What more can I give? What more can I do?"

He put his arms about her and drew her head down on his shoulder.

"Nothing, nothing. You have given, you have done everything--too much,
too much. I feel myself below you, I know myself below you--far, far
down."

"How can you say that? I couldn't have loved you if it were so." She
spoke with complete conviction.

"Perhaps," he said, in a low voice, "perhaps women never realise what
their love can do. It might--it might--"