As she kept beside him she felt as if in that moment their acquaintanceship had sprung forward, like a thing that had been forcibly restrained and that was now sharply released. They did not speak again till they saw, at the end of an alley, the Count and the priest standing together beneath the jamelon tree. Bous-Bous ran forward barking, and Domini was conscious that Androvsky braced himself up, like a fighter stepping into the arena. Her keen sensitiveness of mind and body was so infected by his secret impetuosity of feeling that it seemed to her as if his encounter with the two men framed in the sunlight were a great event which might be fraught with strange consequences. She almost held her breath as she and Androvsky came down the path and the fierce sunrays reached out to light up their faces.
Count Anteoni stepped forward to greet them.
"Monsieur Androvsky--Count Anteoni," she said.
The hands of the two men met. She saw that Androvsky's was lifted reluctantly.
"Welcome to my garden," Count Anteoni said with his invariable easy courtesy. "Every traveller has to pay his tribute to my domain. I dare to exact that as the oldest European inhabitant of Beni-Mora."
Androvsky said nothing. His eyes were on the priest. The Count noticed it, and added:
"Do you know Father Roubier?"
"We have often seen each other in the hotel," Father Roubier said with his usual straightforward simplicity.
He held out his hand, but Androvsky bowed hastily and awkwardly and did not seem to see it. Domini glanced at Count Anteoni, and surprised a piercing expression in his bright eyes. It died away at once, and he said:
"Let us go to the /salle-a-manger/. /Dejeuner/ will be ready, Miss Enfilden."
She joined him, concealing her reluctance to leave Androvsky with the priest, and walked beside him down the path, preceded by Bous-Bous.
"Is my /fete/ going to be a failure?" he murmured.
She did not reply. Her heart was full of vexation, almost of bitterness. She felt angry with Count Anteoni, with Androvsky, with herself. She almost felt angry with poor Father Roubier.
"Forgive me! do forgive me!" the Count whispered. "I meant no harm."
She forced herself to smile, but the silence behind them, where the two men were following, oppressed her. If only Androvsky would speak!
He had not said one word since they were all together. Suddenly she turned her head and said:
"Did you ever see such palms, Monsieur Androvsky? Aren't they magnificent?"
Her voice was challenging, imperative. It commanded him to rouse himself, to speak, as a touch of the lash commands a horse to quicken his pace. Androvsky raised his head, which had been sunk on his breast as he walked.
"Palms!" he said confusedly.
"Yes, they are wonderful."
"You care for trees?" asked the Count, following Domini's lead and speaking with a definite intention to force a conversation.
"Yes, Monsieur, certainly."
"I have some wonderful fellows here. After /dejeuner/ you must let me show them to you. I spent years in collecting my children and teaching them to live rightly in the desert."
Very naturally, while he spoke, he had joined Androvsky, and now walked on with him, pointing out the different varieties of trees.
Domini was conscious of a sense of relief and of a strong feeling of gratitude to their host. Following upon the gratitude came a less pleasant consciousness of Androvsky's lack of good breeding. He was certainly not a man of the world, whatever he might be. To-day, perhaps absurdly, she felt responsible for him, and as if he owed it to her to bear himself bravely and govern his dislikes if they clashed with the feelings of his companions. She longed hotly for him to make a good impression, and, when her eyes met Father Roubier's, was almost moved to ask his pardon for Androvsky's rudeness. But the Father seemed unconscious of it, and began to speak about the splendour of the African vegetation.
"Does not its luxuriance surprise you after England?" he said.
"No," she replied bluntly. "Ever since I have been in Africa I have felt that I was in a land of passionate growth."
"But--the desert?" he replied with a gesture towards the long flats of the Sahara, which were still visible between the trees.
"I should find it there too," she answered. "There, perhaps, most of all."
He looked at her with a gentle wonder. She did not explain that she was no longer thinking of growth in Nature.
The /salle-a-manger/ stood at the end of a broad avenue of palms not far from the villa. Two Arab servants were waiting on each side of the white step that led into an ante-room filled with divans and coffee- tables. Beyond was a lofty apartment with an arched roof, in the centre of which was an oval table laid for breakfast, and decorated with masses of trumpet-shaped scarlet flowers in silver vases. Behind each of the four high-backed chairs stood an Arab motionless as a statue. Evidently the Count's /fete/ was to be attended by a good deal of ceremony. Domini felt sorry, though not for herself. She had been accustomed to ceremony all her life, and noticed it, as a rule, almost as little as the air she breathed. But she feared that to Androvsky it would be novel and unpleasant. As they came into the shady room she saw him glance swiftly at the walls covered with dark Persian hangings, at the servants in their embroidered jackets, wide trousers, and snow-white turbans, at the vivid flowers on the table, then at the tall windows, over which flexible outside blinds, dull green in colour, were drawn; and it seemed to her that he was feeling like a trapped animal, full of a fury of uneasiness. Father Roubier's unconscious serenity in the midst of a luxury to which he was quite unaccustomed emphasised Androvsky's secret agitation, which was no secret to Domini, and which she knew must be obvious to Count Anteoni.
She began to wish ardently that she had let Androvsky follow his impulse to go when he heard of Father Roubier's presence.
