"In spite of that letter—Isaacson said—he did come that night, and he overheard us talking on the balcony, and heard me say how I wished he were in Egypt."
He stopped again. His own narrative seemed to be waking up something in his mind.
"Why didn't you tell me then that you knew he was in Egypt?" he asked.
She merely raised her eyebrows. Within her now the recklessness was increasing. With it was blent a strange and powerful sensation of fatalism.
"Was it because you hated Isaacson so much?"
"That was it."
"But then—but then, when he was with me, you said that you had brought him. You said that in the temple you had begged him to come. I remember that quite well."
"Do you?" she said.
And fate seemed to her to be moving her lips, to be forming for her each word she said.
"Yes. Why was that? Why did you say that?"