He came towards them with determination and sat down, drawing forward his chair till he was facing Domini. Directly he was quiet Bous-Bous sprang upon his knee and lay down hastily, blinking his eyes, which were almost concealed by hair, and heaving a sigh which made the priest look kindly at him, even while he said deprecatingly:
“Bous-Bous! Bous-Bous! Little rascal, little pig—down, down!”
“Oh, leave him, Monsieur!” muttered Androvsky. “It’s all the same to me.”
“He really has no shame where his heart is concerned.”
“Arab!” said the Count. “He has learnt it in Beni-Mora.”
“Perhaps he has taken lessons from Larbi,” said Domini. “Hark! He is playing to-day. For whom?”
“I never ask now,” said the Count. “The name changes so often.”
“Constancy is not an Arab fault?” Domini asked.
“You say ‘fault,’ Madame,” interposed the priest.
“Yes, Father,” she returned with a light touch of conscious cynicism. “Surely in this world that which is apt to bring inevitable misery with it must be accounted a fault.”