"Come into the drawing-room. And you must have some breakfast."
He let go her hand. She went into the drawing-room, and she sank down on a sofa. He followed almost immediately.
"Oh!" she said.
She leaned back against the cushions, stretched out her arms, and shut her eyes. All the time she was thinking, "Baroudi is here! Baroudi is here! And I can't go to him; I can't go—I can't go!"
She seemed to see his mighty throat, his eyebrows, slanting upwards above his great bold eyes, his large, muscular hands, his deep chest of an athlete.
She heard Nigel sitting down close to her.
"Why didn't Ibrahim come to the station?" she said, with an effort opening her eyes.
"Oh, I suppose he was busy," Nigel replied.
His voice sounded cautious and uneasy.
"Busy?"