They looked at each other. Then, without a word, he walked on again. As she kept beside him she felt as if in that moment their acquaintanceship had sprung forward, like a thing that had been forcibly restrained and that was now sharply released. They did not speak again till they saw, at the end of an alley, the Count and the priest standing together beneath the jamelon tree. Bous-Bous ran forward barking, and Domini was conscious that Androvsky braced himself up, like a fighter stepping into the arena. Her keen sensitiveness of mind and body was so infected by his secret impetuosity of feeling that it seemed to her as if his encounter with the two men framed in the sunlight were a great event which might be fraught with strange consequences. She almost held her breath as she and Androvsky came down the path and the fierce sunrays reached out to light up their faces.
Count Anteoni stepped forward to greet them.
“Monsieur Androvsky—Count Anteoni,” she said.
The hands of the two men met. She saw that Androvsky’s was lifted reluctantly.
“Welcome to my garden,” Count Anteoni said with his invariable easy courtesy. “Every traveller has to pay his tribute to my domain. I dare to exact that as the oldest European inhabitant of Beni-Mora.”
Androvsky said nothing. His eyes were on the priest. The Count noticed it, and added:
“Do you know Father Roubier?”
“We have often seen each other in the hotel,” Father Roubier said with his usual straightforward simplicity.
He held out his hand, but Androvsky bowed hastily and awkwardly and did not seem to see it. Domini glanced at Count Anteoni, and surprised a piercing expression in his bright eyes. It died away at once, and he said:
“Let us go to the salle-a-manger. Dejeuner will be ready, Miss Enfilden.”