"The desert is making me abominably natural," she thought.
At this moment the black figure of Father Roubier came out of the shadows of the trees with Bous-Bous trotting importantly beside it.
"Ah, Father," said Count Anteoni, going to meet him, while Domini got up from her chair, "it is good of you to come out in the sun to eat fish with such a bad parishioner as I am. Your little companion is welcome."
He patted Bous-Bous, who took little notice of him.
"You know Miss Enfilden, I think?" continued the Count.
"Father Roubier and I meet every day," said Domini, smiling.
"Mademoiselle has been good enough to take a kind interest in the humble work of the Church in Beni-Mora," said the priest with the serious simplicity characteristic of him.
He was a sincere man, utterly without pretension, and, as such men often are, quietly at home with anybody of whatever class or creed.
"I must go to the garden gate," Domini said. "Will you excuse me for a moment?"
"To meet Monsieur Androvsky? Let us accompany you if Father Roubier--"
"Please don't trouble. I won't be a minute."
Something in her voice made Count Anteoni at once acquiesce, defying his courteous instinct.
"We will wait for you here," he said.
There was a whimsical plea for forgiveness in his eyes. Domini's did not reject it; they did not answer it. She walked away, and the two men looked after her tall figure with admiration. As she went along the sand paths between the little streams, and came into the deep shade, her vexation seemed to grow darker like the garden ways. For a moment she thought she understood the sensations that must surely sometimes beset a treacherous woman. Yet she was incapable of treachery. Smain was standing dreamily on the great sweep of sand before the villa. She and he were old friends now, and every day he calmly gave her a flower when she came into the garden.
"What time is it, Smain?"
"Nearly half-past twelve, Madame."
"Will you open the door and see if anyone is coming?"
He went towards the great door, and Domini sat down on a bench under the evergreen roof to wait. She had seldom felt more discomposed, and began to reason with herself almost angrily. Even if the presence of the priest was unpleasant to Androvsky, why should she mind?
Antagonism to the priesthood was certainly not a mental condition to be fostered, but a prejudice to be broken down. But she had wished-- she still wished with ardour--that Androvsky's first visit to the garden should be a happy one, should pass off delightfully. She had a dawning instinct to make things smooth for him. Surely they had been rough in the past, rougher even than for herself. And she wondered for an instant whether he had come to Beni-Mora, as she had come, vaguely seeking for a happiness scarcely embodied in a definite thought.
"There is a gentleman coming, Madame."
It was the soft voice of Smain from the gate. In a moment Androvsky stood before it. Domini saw him framed in the white wood, with a brilliant blue behind him and a narrow glimpse of the watercourse. He was standing still and hesitating.
"Monsieur Androvsky!" she called.
He started, looked across the sand, and stepped into the garden with a sort of reluctant caution that pained her, she scarcely knew why. She got up and went towards him, and they met full in the sunshine.
"I came to be your cicerone."
"Thank you, Madame."
There was the click of wood striking against wood as Smain closed the gate. Androvsky turned quickly and looked behind him. His demeanour was that of a man whose nerves were tormenting him. Domini began to dread telling him of the presence of the priest, and, characteristically, did without hesitation what she feared to do.
"This is the way," she said.
Then, as they turned into the shadow of the trees and began to walk between the rills of water, she added abruptly:
"Father Roubier is here already, so our party is complete."
Androvsky stood still.
"Father Roubier! You did not tell me he was coming."
"I did not know it till five minutes ago."
She stood still too, and looked at him. There was a flaming of distrust in his eyes, his lips were compressed, and his whole body betokened hostility.
"I did not understand. I thought Senor Anteoni would be alone here."
"Father Roubier is a pleasant companion, sincere and simple. Everyone likes him."
"No doubt, Madame. But--the fact is I"--he hesitated, then added, almost with violence--"I do not care for priests."
"I am sorry. Still, for once--for an hour--you can surely----"
She did not finish the sentence. While she was speaking she felt the banality of such phrases spoken to such a man, and suddenly changed tone and manner.
"Monsieur Androvsky," she said, laying one hand on his arm, "I knew you would not like Father Roubier's being here. If I had known he was coming I should have told you in order that you might have kept away if you wished to. But now that you are here--now that Smain has let you in and the Count and Father Roubier must know of it, I am sure you will stay and govern your dislike. You intend to turn back. I see that. Well, I ask you to stay."
She was not thinking of herself, but of him. Instinct told her to teach him the way to conceal his aversion. Retreat would proclaim it.
"For yourself I ask you," she added. "If you go, you tell them what you have told me. You don't wish to do that."
They looked at each other. Then, without a word, he walked on again.
