fellow-beings in her splendid contentment.
And the effect of this return, as it were, to something like the
former material conditions of her life, with the mental and affectional
conditions of it transformed by joy, was striking even to herself.
Suddenly she realised to the full her own humanity, and the living
warmth of sympathy that is fanned into flame in a human heart by the
presence of human life with its hopes, desires, fears, passions, joys,
that leap to the eye. Instead of hating this fierce change from solitude
with the man she loved to a crowd with the man she loved she rejoiced in
it. Androvsky was the cause of both her joys, joy in the waste and joy
in Amara, but while he shared the one he did not share the other.

This did not surprise her because of the conditions in which he had
lived. He was country-bred and had always dwelt far from towns. She was
returning to an old experience--old, for the London crowd and the
crowd of Amara were both crowds of men, however different--with a mind
transformed by happiness. To him the experience was new. Something
within her told her that it was necessary, that it had been ordained
because he needed it. The recalled town-sense, with its sharpness
of observation, persisted. As she rode in to Amara she had seemed to
herself to be reading Androvsky with an almost merciless penetration
which yet she could not check. Now she did not wish to check it, for the
penetration that is founded on perfect love can only yield good fruit.
It seemed to her that she was allowed to see clearly for Androvsky what
he could not see himself, almost as the mother sees for the child. This
contact with the crowds of Amara was, she thought, one of the gifts the
desert made to him. He did not like it. He wished to reject it. But he
was mistaken. For the moment his vision was clouded, as our vision for
ourselves so often is. She realised this, and, for the first time since
the marriage service at Beni-Mora, perhaps seemed to be selfish. She
opposed his wish. Hitherto there had never been any sort of contest
between them. Their desires, like their hearts, had been in accord. Now
there was not a contest, for Androvsky yielded to Domini's preference,
when she expressed it, with a quickness that set his passion before her
in a new and beautiful light. But she knew that, for the moment, they
were not in accord. He hated and dreaded what she encountered with a
vivid sensation of sympathy and joy.

She