"Yes?"
"If they are pleased with it we shall all probably move on there in a day or two."
He would like to be sure that this sentence ends with a sigh, but a prodigious storm of hand-clapping from the extempore theatre prevents his hearing whether it has that regretful finish.
"And they are going to leave you behind?"
"Why not? there would not be much use in taking me; and, as I tell you, they love being tête-à-tête."
"And you love being alone?"
The moment that the question is out of his mouth, he realizes its full unkindness. He is perfectly aware that she does not like being alone; that she is naturally a most sociable little being; that, even now, these frightened five minutes of unsatisfactory broken talk with himself have made her look less chilled, less wobegone, less white. Her answer, if it can be looked upon as one, must be taken by him as a rebuke. It is only that she says nervously:
"One certainly does hear dreadfully plainly here with the door open."
Her tone is of the gentlest, her look no angrier than a dove's, and yet he would be obtuser than he is if he did not at once comprehend that her remark implies a wish that he should presently shut that door behind him on the outside. He complies. With that newly-gained knowledge as to to-morrow's Hammam Rhira, he can afford to comply.
The next morning's light reveals that the weather, pleased with having so indisputably proved its power of being odious, has recovered its good-humour.