"Nothing," Mike said, "unless it's my mother herself, in her gardening gloves, cutting off the dead heads from the rose-beds."
"But she's Irish!"
"Well, I meant British. When you said things seen in England I visualized my robin in Ireland, juicy, green, luscious Ireland!"
"Tell me about Ireland," Millicent said lightly. As she spoke, she made a hole in the sand; she pushed her hand and wrist into it—her gloves were off. She drove it in still further, until her elbow only was above the sand; her arm was buried in the desert.
"Take care of sand-flies," Michael said. Millicent's sleeve was rolled up.
"Are there any here? I've not been troubled with them."
"No, probably not—they are the plague of Upper Egypt."
"They were awful at Assuan. It's awfully hot, Michael!" Millicent referred to the sand. She withdrew her arm. "Give me your hand—just feel it." She pulled up his sleeve and took his hand. She held it in her own and thrust it into the hot, soft sand. With her free hand she pulled up her own sleeve and Michael's so as to allow their arms to sink still further into the sand; they were bare to the elbow. Her wrist and the palm of her hand were pressed close to Michael's. Suddenly her hand ceased boring; she remained still, her soft fingers embracing Michael's. Her eyes sought his. He read their invitation.
"It's only our hands, Michael—let them rest." Her fingers tightened round his as she spoke; her eyes challenged him. At the challenge his pulses leapt, his hand ceased to resist. For two days he had been playing with fire. In the wilderness that surrounded them what waters would quench its leaping flames?
Millicent's soft arm lay with his; it was human and caressing. Then a fear came to him, born of a sudden intense hatred. She was such a little thing. He could strangle her, crush her to atoms. That was the way to put an end to it all.