She recalled
her reckless return to Cairo from Alexandria. She remembered the little
room where she and David, Nahoum and Mizraim, crossed a bridge over a
chasm, and stood upon ground which had held good till now--till this
hour, when the man who had played a most vital part in her life had
come again out of a land which, by some forced obliquity of mind and
stubbornness of will, she had assured herself she would never see again.

She withdrew her hand from her eyes, and saw him looking at her calmly,
though his face was alight. "Thee is fatigued," he said. "This is labour
which wears away the strength." He made a motion towards the crowd.

She smiled a very little, and said: "You do not care for such things as
this, I know. Your life has its share of it, however, I suppose."

He looked out over the throng before he answered. "It seems an eddy of
purposeless waters. Yet there is great depth beneath, or there were no
eddy; and where there is depth and the eddy there is danger--always." As
he spoke she became almost herself again. "You think that deep natures
have most perils?"

"Thee knows it is so. Human nature is like the earth: the deeper the
plough goes into the soil unploughed before, the more evil substance is
turned up--evil that becomes alive as soon as the sun and the air fall
upon it."

"Then, women like me who pursue a flippant life, who ride in this
merry-go-round"--she made a gesture towards the crowd beyond--"who
have no depth, we are safest, we live upon the surface." Her gaiety was
forced; her words were feigned.

"Thee has passed the point of danger, thee is safe," he answered
meaningly.

"Is that because I am not deep, or because the plough has been at work?"
she asked. "In neither case I am not sure you are right."

"Thee is happily married," he said reflectively; "and the prospect is
fair."

"I think you know my husband," she said in answer, and yet not in
answer.

"I was born in Hamley where he has a place--thee has been there?" he
asked eagerly.

"Not yet. We are to go next Sunday, for the first time to the Cloistered
House. I had not heard that my husband knew you, until I saw in
the paper a few days ago that your home was in Hamley. Then I asked
Eglington, and he told me that your family and his had been neighbours
for generations."

"His father was a Quaker," David rejoined, "but he forsook the faith."

"I did not know," she answered, with some hesitation. There was no
reason wh